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SMOKE 


BY  IVAN  TURGENEV 


INTRODUCTION  BY  JOHN  REED 


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THE    MODERN    LIBRARY 


PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


COPTBIGHT.  1919,  BT 
BONI  &  LIVERIGHT.  Inc. 


MANUFACTURED  IN  THE  rNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA  BY  H.  WOLFF 


INTRODUCTION 

WHEN  Litvinov  was  torn  loose  from  his  "far 
from  gay  or  complicated"  life,  caught  up  in  a  lurid 
passion  in  which  he  was  never  at  home,  and  then 
abandoned,  he  fled  upon  the  train.  At  first  he  was 
exhausted  by  the  prodigious  effort  of  will  he  had 
made;  then  a  kind  of  composure  came  upon  him. 
He  "was  hardened."  The  train,  the  minutes,  were 
carrying  him  away  from  the  wreck  of  his  life. 

"He  took  to  gazing  out  of  the  window.  The  day 
was  gray  and  damp;  there  was  no  rain,  but  the  fog 
held  on,  and  low-lying  clouds  veiled  the  sky.  The 
wind  was  blowing  in  the  contrary  direction  to  the 
course  of  the  train;  whitish  clouds  of  steam,  now 
alone,  now  mingled  with  other,  darker  clouds,  of 
smoke,  swept,  in  an  endless  series,  past  the  window 
beside  which  Litvinov  sat.  He  began  to  watch  the 
steam,  the  smoke.  Incessantly  whirling,  rising  and 
falling,  twisting  and  catching  at  the  grass,  at  the 
bushes,  playing  pranks,  as  it  were,  lengthening  and 
melting,  puff  followed  puff,  .  .  .  they  were  con- 
stantly changing  and  yet  remained  the  same  .  .  . 
a  monotonous,  hurried,  tiresome  game !  Sometimes 
the  wind  changed,  the  road  made  a  turn — the  whole 
mass  suddenly  disappeared,  and  immediately  became 
visible  through  the  opposite  window;  then,  once 
more,  the  hugh  train  flung  itself  over,  and  once  more 
veiled  from  Litvinov  the  wide  view  of  the  Rhine 
Valley.  He  gazed  and  gazed,  and  a  strange  reflec- 
tion occurred  to  him.  .  .  .  He  was  alone  in  the  car- 
riage ;  there  wras  no  one  to  interfere  with  him. 
'Smoke,  smoke' — he  repeated  several  times  in  suc- 
vii 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

cession;  and  suddenly  everything  appeared  to  him  to 
be  smoke — everything,  his  own  life,  everything  per- 
taining to  men,  especially  everything  Russian.  Every- 
thing is  smoke  and  steam,  he  thought; — everything 
seems  to  be  constantly  undergoing  change;  every- 
where there  are  new  forms,  phenomenon  follows  phe- 
nomenon, but  in  reality  everything  is  exactly  alike; 
everything  is  hurrying,  hastening  somewhither — and 
everything  vanishes  without  leaving  a  trace,  without 
having  attained  to  any  end  whatever;  another  breeze 
has  begun  to  blow — and  everything  has  been  flung  to 
1he  other  side,  and  there,  again,  is  the  same  incessant, 
agitated — and  useless  game.  He  recalled  many  things 
which  had  taken  place,  with  much  sound  and  clatter, 
before  his  eyes  the  last  few  years  .  .  .  'smoke,'  he 
murmured, — 'smoke.'  " 

"Smoke."  This  is  not  only  Litvinov's  reaction  from 
experiences  too  terrible  for  his  mind  and  heart  to 
stand — and  also  his  consolation — but  it  is  Turgenev's 
own  reaction  to  life.  The  profound  disillusion  fol- 
lowing the  failure  of  the  Revolutionary  movement 
of  '48,  which  swept  over  the  intellectuals  of  Europe, 
had  also  its  characteristic  repercussion  among  the  in- 
tellectual youth  of  Russia,  and  made  a  generation 
like  the  later  generation  so  well  portrayed  by  Tchekov 
— the  men  of  the  '8os,  and  also  like  the  Intelligentsia 
after  the  failure  of  the  Revolution  of  1905. 

The  restless  futility,  self-searching,  flabbiness  of 
will  so  native  to  this  type  are  incarnate  in  one  of 
Turgenev's  greatest  characters,  Rudin.  They  persist 
in  numerous  characters  in  Smoke,  and  are  not  absent 
from  the  make-up  of  Litvinov  himself — nor  of  Tur- 
genev,  for  that  matter.  The  conception  of  the 
futility  of  effort,  of  revolution,  of  political  ideas  in 
general,  the  tranquillity  attained  only  by  seeing  life 


INTRODUCTION  w 

from  the  standpoint  of  eternity,  Turgenev  had  al- 
ready enunciated  in  Fathers  and  Children.  He 
wished  to  see  life  with  Olympian  calm;  the  irony  of 
Basarov's  death  is  a  key-note  of  his  profound  pes- 
simism. But  in  Smoke  there  is  bitter  satire,  showing 
that  life  to  him  was  still  a  battle,  an  exasperation. 

The  claims  so  often  made  by  critics  that  Turgenev, 
the  natural  aristocrat,  was  always  consciously,  above 
all,  an  artist,  are  disproved  by  his  own  autobio- 
graphical note  prefaced  to  the  complete  edition  of 
his  works  published  in  Moscow  in  1880: 

"I  took  a  header  into  the  German  Ocean,"  he  says, 
speaking  of  his  going  to  Berlin,  to  study  in  the 
University — where,  by  the  wayj  he  was  a  fellow- 
student  with  Bakunin.  "...  It  was  absolutely 
necessary  for  me  to  get  clear  of  my  enemy,  the  better 
to  strike  from  a  distance.  To  my  eyes  this  enemy 
had  a  formidable  appearance,  and  an  ordinary  name. 
My  enemy  was  the  'lawfulness'  of  Serfdom."  This 
"enemy"  Turgenev  swore  to  conquer.  "It  was  my 
'Hannibal  oath/  and  in  those  days  I  was  not  the  only 
one  who  took  it.  ...  I  went  to  Germany  to  enable 
me  to  fulfill  it.  ...  " 

How  well  he  kept  this  oath  is  evident  in  the  effect 
of  "Sportsmen's  Sketches,"  his  first  important  book, 
published  about  1852,  which,  in  the  guise  of  mere 
description,  depicted  the  wretchedness  of  the  peasants 
in  a  way  that  roused  Russian  public  opinion,  more  than 
any  other  one  influence,  to  demand  the  Emancipation 
of  the  Serfs.  This  book  is  often  called  the  Russian 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  and  appeared  contemporaneously 
with  it.  The  motive  of  Emancipation  runs  through 
almost  all  Turgenev's  work,  and  appears  in  Smoke, 
which  was  published  after  the  freeing  of  the  Serfs. 
(By  the  way,  there  is  a  humorous  reference  to  Mrs. 


x  INTRODUCTION 

Stowe  in  Chapter  IV.)  For  instance,  when,  bruised 
and  broken,  Litvinov  returns  to  his  estate  in  Russia, 
he  was  at  first  unable  to  change  the  old  system: 

"New  ideas  won  their  way  badly,  old  ones  had 
lost  their  force;  the  ignorant  clashed  with  the  dis- 
honest; his  whole  deranged  existence  was  in  constant 
motion,  like  a  quaking  bog,  and  only  the  great  word 
'Liberty'  moved,  like  the  spirit  of  God,  over  the 
waters.  .  .  . 

"But  a  year  passed,  then  a  second,  the  third  was 
beginning.  The  grand  thought  was  gradually  being 
realized,  was  being  transformed  into  flesh  and  blood; 
a  sprout  was  putting  forth  from  the  seed  that  had 
been  sown;  and  its'  enemies,  either  open  or  secret, 
could  no  longer  trample  it  under  foot." 

The  tremendous  interest  aroused,  by  Turgenev's 
books  in  Russia  was  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  they 
were  all  concerned  with  politics — that,  beside  their 
delicate  and  restrained  literary  art,  through  them  all 
ran  a  strain  of.  propaganda — that  they  dealt  with  the 
actual  burning  questions  of  the  times. 

Smoke,  in  particular,  was  Turgenev's  contri- 
bution to  the  great  controversy  between  the  Slavo- 
phils and  those  who  championed  western  ideals  for 
Russia.  There  is  no  doubt  that  Turgenev's  own 
ideals  are  expressed  by  the  ruined  nobleman  Potugin ; 
and  Litvinov  himself,  a  rather  quiet,  ordinary  young 
man,  who  has  traveled  over  Europe  studying  technol- 
ogy and  scientific  farming,  is  the  kind  of  man  that 
Turgenev  passionately  believes  Russia  to  need. 

But  at  the  same  time  the  author  has  concentrated 
his  most  bitter  attack  upon  those  Russian  young  men 
who  have  come  to  Europe  and  absorbed,  with  all  their 
Slavic  facility,  a  mass  of  undigested  European  ideas 
and  theories.  There  is  nothing  in  literature  more 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

stinging  than  the  satire  of  the  first  six  chapters  of 
Smoke,  which  has  a.  quality  of  Dickens  about  it. 

This  is  not  hatred,  however.  While  laughing  bit- 
terly at  his  young  "intellectual"  countrymen,  Turgen- 
ev  understands  them ;  they,  like  himself,  are  creatures 
of  environment  and  heredity.  But  he  pours  his  con- 
tempt upon  the  "aristocrats"  of  St.  Petersburg,  who 
are  only  cruel  and  corrupt. 

The  life  of  Litvinov  is,  in  its  fundamentals,  the 
life  of  Turgenev  himself.  Like  Litvinov,  the  author 
was  the  "son  of  a  retired  petty  official,"  living  on  a 
country  estate,  with  a  mother  who  tried  to  live  as  a 
noble,  on  an  insufficient  income,  ruining  the  estate 
in  the  process.  As  with  Litvinov,  nothing  but  French 
was  spoken  in  Turgenev's  family.  Turgenev  him- 
self had  to  learn  Russian  from  the  house  servants — 
the  language  of  which  he  was  afterwards  to  be  the 
great  master. 

Like  Litvinov,  Turgenev  also  lived  in  Baden. 
Smoke  was  written  there,  and  the  episodes  and 
characters  are  undoubtedly  from  life.  He  came  to 
Baden  to  be  near  Madame  Viardot,  the  opera  singer, 
his  most  intimate,  life-long  friend.  .  .  . 

No  doubt,  also,  Irina  came  from  his  own  experi- 
ence, at  some  time.  She  is  one  of  a  trio,  passionate 
and  beautiful,  wreckers  of  men:  Varvara  Pavlovna, 
in  A  Nobleman's  Nest;  Maria  Nikolaevna,  in  Tor- 
rents of  Spring;  and  Irina.  But  she  is  by  far  the 
clearest  and  most  human  of  the  three.  Many  men 
have  known  such  women — women  who  live  like 
panthers,  taking  what  they  want  and  moving  through 
the  world  all  baleful  fire,  fit  mates  only  for  the  strong. 
And  Litvinov  was  not  strong — nor  was  Turgenev. 

Turgenev  was  the  next  of  the  great  Russian 
novelists  in  line  after  Gogol,  the  predecessor  and 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

finally  minor  contemporary  of  the  giants  Tolstoy 
and  Dostoyevsky.  The  Russian  realistic  novel,  de- 
veloping in  its  own  way  a  technique  distinct  from 
that  of  Western  literature,  can  be  partially  explained 
by  the  political  conditions  in  Russia. 

Politics  were  forbidden,  and  yet  the  Russian 
people  were  passionately  concerned  with  politics  and 
the  Russian  novelists  are  above  all  political  propa- 
gandists. Yet  how  could  politics  be  written  about 
so  as  to  be  printed  openly  and  read  in  Russia?  Only 
by  describing  Russian  life  and  institutions  in  the  form 
of  a  story,  only  by  painting  a  picture  of  people  and 
permitting  the  reader  to  draw  his  own  conclusions. 
In  this  Turgenev  excelled.  .  .  . 

Smoke,  outside  of  the  one  tremendous  episode  of 
Litvinov  and  Irina  in  Baden,  is  chiefly  interesting 
to  us  as  a  description  of  Russian  society,  not  only 
in  the  '60,  but  even  up  to  1917.  This  same  intel- 
ligentsia, absorbing  all  European  ideas,  reading  all 
books,  adopting  all  European  theories,  touched  by 
the  same  instinctive  sympathy  for  Western  liberalism, 
— and  hence,  the  revolutionary  movement  in  Russia, 
— deserted  the  Revolution  in  a  panic  when  it  pre- 
sented itself  in  all  its  uncouth  power.  This  same  cor- 
rupt and  brutal  official  "aristocracy,"  overthrown 
with  the  Tsar,  now  no  longer  exists,  except  in  exile, 
where  it  intrigues  and  conspires  with  futile  rage,  un- 
able to  comprehend  its  fate. 

In  Russia  to-day  the  Soviet  Government  has  pub- 
lished an  edition  of  Turgenev's  works,  and  the  people 
read  them  in  the  same  spirit  of  admiration  for  his 
literary  skill,  the  same  sympathy  for  the  universal 
quality  of  his  characters,  and  the  same  historical  in- 
terest as  they  do  any  faithful  chronicler  of  an  age 
ended  forever.  JOHN  REED. 


SMOKE 


THE  NAMES  OF  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 
THE  BOOK 

GRIGORY  [Grisha]  MIHALOVITCH  LITVINOV. 
TAT-YANA  [Tanya]  PETROVNA  SHESTOV. 
KAPITOLINA  MARKOVNA. 
ROSTISLAV  BAMBAEV. 
SEMYON  YAKOVLEVITCH  VoROSHfLOV. 
STEFAN  NIKOLAEVITCH  GUBAR-YOV. 
MATRONA  SEMYONOVNA  SUHAN'TCHIKOV. 
TIT  BINDASOV. 

PlSH-TCHALKIN. 

SOZONT  IVANITCH  POTT^GIN. 
IRINA  PAVLOVNA  OSININ. 
VALERIAN  VLADIMIROVITCH 


In  transcribing  the  Russian  names  into  English — 
a  has  the  sound  of  a  in  father 
e     "     "        "       "    a  in  pane. 
i      "     "        "       "    ee. 
u     "     "        "       "    oo. 
y  is  always  consonantal  except  when  it  is  the 

last  letter  of  the  word. 
g  is  always  hard. 


SMOKE 


ON  the  loth  of  August,  1862,  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  a  great  number  of  people  were  thronging 
before  the  well-known  Konversation  in  Baden-Baden. 
The  weather  was  lovely;  everything  around — the 
green  trees,  the  bright  houses  of  the  gay  city,  and  th* 
undulating  outline  of  the  mountains — everything  was 
in  holiday  mood,  basking  in  the  rays  of  the  kindly  sun- 
shine ;  everything  seemed  smiling  with  a  sort  of  blind, 
confiding  delight;  and  the  same  glad,  vague  smile 
strayed  over  the  human  faces,  too,  old  and  young,  ugly 
and  beautiful  alike.  Even  the  blackened  and  whitened 
visages  of  the  Parisian  demi-monde  could  not  destroy 
the  general  impression  of  bright  content  and  elation, 
while  their  many-colored  ribbons  and  feathers  and 
the  sparks  of  gold  and  steel  on  their  hats  and  veils  in- 
voluntarily recalled  the  intensified  brilliance  and  light 
fluttering  of  birds  in  spring,  with  their  rainbow-tinted 
wings.  But  the  dry,  guttural  snapping  of  the  French 
jargon,  heard  on  all  sides  could  not  equal  the  song 
of  birds,  nor  be  compared  with  it. 

Everything,  however,  was  going  on  in  its  accus- 
tomed way.  The  orchestra  in  the  Pavilion  played 
first  a  medley  from  the  Traviata,  then  one  of  Strauss's 
waltzes,  then  "Tell  her,"  a  Russian  song,  adapted  for 
instruments  by  an  obliging  conductor.  In  the  gam- 


2  SMOKE 

bling  saloons,  round  the  green  tables,  crowded  the 
same  familiar  figures,  with  the  same  dull,  greedy, 
half-stupefied,  half-exasperated,  wholly  rapacious  ex- 
pression, which  the  gambling  fever  lends  to  all,  even 
the  most  aristocratic,  features.  The  same  well-fed  and 
ultra-fashionably  dressed  Russian  landowner  from 
Tambov  with  wide  staring  eyes  leaned  over  the  table, 
and  with  uncomprehending  haste,  heedless  of  the  cold 
smiles  of  the  croupiers  themselves,  at  the  very  instant 
of  the  cry  "rien  ne  va  plus,"  laid  with  perspiring  hand 
golden  rings  of  louts  d'or  on  all  the  four  corners  of 
the  roulette,  depriving  himself  by  so  doing  of  every 
possibility  of  gaining  anything,  even  in  case  of  suc- 
cess. This  did  not  in  the  least  prevent  him  the  same 
evening  from  affirming  the  contrary  with  disinterested 
indignation  to  Prince  Koko,  one  of  the  well-known 
leaders  of  the  aristocratic  opposition,  the  Prince 
Koko,  who  in  Paris  at  the  salon  of  the  Princess 
Mathilde,  so  happily  remarked  in  the  presence  of  the 
Emperor:  "Madame,  le  principe  de  la  propriete  est 
profondement  ebranle  en  Russie"  At  the  Russian 
tree,  a  I'arbre  Russe,  our  dear  fellow-countrymen  and 
countrywomen  were  assembled  after  their  wont.  They 
approached  haughtily  and  carelessly  in  fashionable 
style,  greeted  each  other  with  dignity  and  elegant  ease, 
as  befits  beings  who  find  themselves  at  the  topmost 
pinnacle  of  contemporary  culture.  But  when  they  had 
met  and  sat  down  together,  they  were  absolutely  at  a 
loss  for  anything  to  say  to  one  another,  and  had  to  be 
content  with  a  pitiful  interchange  of  inanities,  or  with 
the  exceedingly  indecent  and  exceedingly  insipid  old 
jokes  of  a  hopelessly  stale  French  wit,  once  a  journal- 
ist, a  chattering  buffoon  with  Jewish  shoes  on  his 
paltry  little  legs,  and  a  contemptible  little  beard  on  his 
mean  little  visage.  He  retailed  to  them,  a  ces  princes 


SMOKE  3 

russes,  all  the  sweet  absurdities  from  the  old  comic 
almanacs  Charivari  and  Tintamarre,  and  they,  ces 
princes  russes,  burst  into  grateful  laughter,  as  though 
forced  in  spite  of  themselves  to  recognize  the  crushing 
superiority  of  foreign  wit,  and  their  own  hopeless  in- 
capacity to  invent  anything  amusing.  Yet  here  were 
almost  all  the  "fine  fleur"  of  our  society,  "all  the  high- 
life  and  mirrors  of  fashion."  Here  was  Count  X.,  our 
incomparable  dilettante,  a  profoundly  musical  nature, 
who  so  divinely  recites  songs  on  the  piano,  but  cannot, 
in  fact,  take  two  notes  correctly  without  fumbling  at 
random  on  the  keys,  and  sings  in  a  style  something 
between  that  of  a  poor  gypsy  singer  and  a  Parisian 
hairdresser.  Here  was  our  enchanting  Baron  Q.,  a 
master  in  every  line :  literature,  administration,  ora- 
tory, and  card-sharping.  Here,  too,  was  Prince  Y., 
the  friend  of  religion  and  the  people,  who  in  the 
blissful  epoch  when  the  spirit-trade  was  a  monopoly, 
had  made  himself  betimes  a  huge  fortune  by  the  sale 
of  vodka  adulterated  with  belladonna;  and  the  bril- 
liant General  O.  O.,  who  had  achieved  the  subjugation 
of  something,  and  the  pacification  of  something  else, 
and  who  is  nevertheless  still  a  nonentity,  and  does  not 
know  what  to  do  with  himself.  And  R.  R.  the  amus- 
ing fat  man,  who  regards  himself  as  a  great  invalid 
and  a  great  wit,  though  he  is,  in  fact,  as  strong  as  a 
bull,  and  as  dull  as  a  post.  .  .  .  This  R.  R.  is  almost 
the  only  man  in  our  day  who  has  preserved  the  tra- 
ditions of  the  dandies  of  the  forties,  of  the  epoch  of 
the  "Hero  of  our  Times,"  and  the  Countess  Voro- 
tinsky.  He  has  preserved,  too,  the  special  gait  with 
the  swing  on  the  heels,  and  le  culte  de  la  pose  (it  can- 
not even  be  put  into  words  in  Russian),  the  unnatural 
deliberation  of  movement,  the  sleepy  dignity  of  ex- 
pression, the  immovable,  offended-looking  counte- 
\ 


4  SMOK& 

nance,  and  the  habit  of  interrupting  other  people's 
remarks  with  a  yawn,  gazing  at  his  own  finger-nails, 
laughing  through  his  nose,  suddenly  shifting  his  hat 
from  the  back  of  his  head  on  to  his  eyebrows,  etc. 
Here,  too,  were  people  in  government  circles,  diplo- 
mats, big-wigs  with  European  names,  men  of  wisdom 
and  intellect,  who  imagine  that  the  Golden  Bull  was 
an  edict  of  the  Pope,  and  that  the  English  poor-tax 
is  a  tax  levied  on  the  poor.  And  here,  too,  were  the 
hot-blooded,  though  tongue-tied,  devotees  of  the 
dames  a,ux  camellias,  young  society  dandies,  with 
superb  partings  down  the  back  of  their  heads,  and 
splendid  drooping  whiskers,  dressed  in  real  London 
costumes,  young  bucks  whom  one  would  fancy  there 
was  nothing  to  hinder  from  becoming  as  vulgar  as  the 
illustrious  French  wit  above  mentioned.  But  no !  our 
home  products  are  not  in  fashion  it  seems;  and 
Countess  S.,  the  celebrated  arbitress  of  fashion  and 
grand  genre,  by  spiteful  tongues  nicknamed  "Queen  of 
the  Wasps,"  and  "Medusa  in  a  mob-cap,"  prefers,  in 
the  absence  of  the  French  wit,  to  consort  with  the  Ital- 
ians, Moldavians,  American  spiritualists,  smart  secre- 
taries of  foreign  embassies,  and  Germans  of  effemi- 
nate, but  prematurely  circumspect,  physiognomy,  of 
whom  the  place  is  full.  The  example  of  the  Countess 
is  followed  by  the  Princess  Babette,  she  in  whose  arms 
Chopin  died  (the  ladies  in  Europe  in  whose  arms  he 
expired  are  to  be  reckoned  by  thousands)  ;  and  the 
Princess  Annette,  who  would  have  been  perfectly  cap- 
tivating, if  the  simple  village  washerwoman  had  not 
suddenly  peeped  out  in  her  at  times,  like  a  smell  of 
cabbage  wafted  across  the  most  delicate  perfume; 
and  Princess  Pachette,  to  whom  the  following  mis- 
chance had  occurred:  her  husband  had  fallen  into  a 
good  berth,  and  all  at  once,  Dieu  sait  ponrpuoi,  he 


SMOKE  5 

had  thrashed  the  provost  and  stolen  20,000  rubles  of 
public  money ;  and  the  laughing  Princess  Zizi ;  and 
the  tearful  Princess  Zozo.  They  all  left  their  com- 
patriots on  one  side,  and  were  merciless  in  their  treat- 
ment of  them.  Let  us,  too,  leave  them  on  one  side, 
these  charming  ladies,  and  walk  away  from  the  re- 
nowned tree  near  which  they  sit  in  such  costly  bur 
somewhat  tasteless  costumes,  and  God  grant  them 
relief  from  the  boredom  consuming  them! 


II 

A  FEW  paces  from  the  "Russian  tree,"  at  a  little 
table  in  front  of  Weber's  coffee-house,  there  was  sit- 
ting a  good-looking  man,  about  thirty,  of  medium 
height,  thin  and  dark,  with  a  manly  and  pleasant  face. 
He  sat  bending  forward  with  both  arms  leaning  on 
his  stick,  with  the  calm  and  simple  air  of  a  man  to 
whom  the  idea  had  not  occurred  that  any  one  would 
notice  him  or  pay  any  attention  to  him.  His  large 
expressive  golden-brown  eyes  were  gazing  deliberately 
about  him,  sometimes  screwed  up  to  keep  the  sunshine 
out  of  them,  and  then  watching  fixedly  some  eccentric 
figure  that  passed  by  him  while  a  childlike  smile  faintly 
stirred  his  fine  moustache  and  lips,  and  his  prominent 
short  chin.  He  wore  a  roomy  coat  of  German  cut,  and 
a  soft  gray  hat  hid  half  of  his  high  forehead.  At  the 
first  glance  he  made  the  impression  of  an  honest,  sen- 
sible, rather  self-confident  young  man  such  as  there 
are  many  in  the  world.  He  seemed  to  be  resting  from 
prolonged  labors  and  to  be  deriving  all  the  more  sim- 
ple-minded amusement  from  the  scene  spread  out  be- 
fore him  because  his  thoughts  were  far  away,  and 
because  they  moved  too,  those  thoughts,  in  a  world 
utterly  unlike  that  which  surrounded  him  at  the  mo- 
ment. He  was  a  Russian;  his  name  was  Grigory 
Mihalovitch  Litvinov. 

We  have  to  make  his  acquaintance,  and  so  it  will 
be  well  to  relate  in  a  few  words  his  past,  which  pre- 
sents little  of  much  interest  or  complexity. 

He  was  the  son  of  an  honest  retired  official  of 
6 


SMOKE  7 

plebian  extraction,  but  he  was  educated,  not  as  one 
would  naturally  expect,  in  the  town,  but  in  the  coun- 
try. His  mother  was  of  noble  family,  and  had  been 
educated  in  a  government  school.  She  was  a  good- 
natured  and  very  enthusiastic  creature,  not  devoid  of 
character,  however.  Though  she  was  twenty  years 
younger  than  her  husband,  she  remodelled  him,  as  far 
as  she  could,  drew  him  out  of  the  petty  official  groove 
into  the  landowner's  way  of  life,  and  softened  and 
refined  his  harsh  and  stubborn  character.  Thanks  to 
her,  he  began  to  dress  with  neatness,  and  to  behave 
with  decorum ;  he  came  to  respect  learned  men  and 
learning,  though,  of  course,  he  never  took  a  single 
book  in  his  hand ;  he  gave  up  swearing,  and  tried  in 
every  way  not  to  demean  himself.  He  even  arrived 
at  walking  more  quietly  and  speaking  in  a  subdued 
voice,  mostly  of  elevated  subjects,  which  cost  him  no 
small  effort.  "Ah !  they  ought  to  be  flogged,  and  that's 
all  about  it!"  he  sometimes  thought  to  himself,  but 
aloud  he  pronounced:  "Yes,  yes,  that's  so  ...  of 
course ;  it  is  a  great  question."  Litvinov's  mother  set 
her  household,  too,  upon  a  European  footing ;  she  ad- 
dressed the  servants  by  the  plural  "you"  instead  of 
the  familiar  "thou,"  and  never  allowed  any  one  to 
gorge  himself  into  a  state  of  lethargy  at  her  table.  As 
regards  the  property  belonging  to  her,  neither  she  nor 
her  husband  was  capable  of  looking  after  it  at  all.  It 
had  been  long  allowed  to  run  to  waste,  but  there  was 
plenty  of  land,  with  all  sorts  of  useful  appurtenances, 
forest-lands  and  a  lake,  on  which  there  had  once  stood 
a  factory,  which  had  been  founded  by  a  zealous  but 
unsystematic  owner,  and  had  flourished  in  the  hands 
of  a  scoundrelly  merchant,  and  gone  utterly  to  ruin 
under  the  superintendence  of  a  conscientious  German 
manager.  Madame  Litvinov  was  contented  so  long  as 


8  SMOKE 

she  did  not  dissipate  her  fortune  or  contract  debts. 
Unluckily  she  could  not  boast  of  good  health,  and  she 
died  of  consumption  in  the  very  year  that  her  son 
entered  the  Moscow  university.  He  did  not  complete 
his  course  there  owing  to  circumstances  of  which  the 
reader  will  hear  more  later  on,  and  went  back  to  his 
provincial  home,  where  he  idled  away  some  time  with- 
out work  and  without  ties,  almost  without  acquaint- 
ances. Thanks  to  the  disinclination  for  active  service 
of  the  local  gentry,  who  were,  however,  not  so  much 
penetrated  by  the  Western  theory  of  the  evils  of 
"absenteeism,"  as  by  the  home-grown  conviction  that 
"one's  own  shirt  is  the  nearest  to  one's  skin,"  he  was 
drawn  for  military  service  in  1855,  and  almost  died  of 
typhus  in  the  Crimea,  where  he  spent  six  months  in  a 
mud-hut  on  the  shore  of  the  Putrid  Sea,  without  ever 
seeing  a  single  ally.  After  that,  he  served,  not  of 
course  without  unpleasant  experiences,  on  the  councils 
of  the  nobility,  and  after  being  a  little  time  in  the 
country,  acquired  a  passion  for  farming.  He  realized 
that  his  mother's  property,  under  the  indolent  and 
feeble  management  of  his  infirm  old  father,  did  not 
yield  a  tenth  of  the  revenue  it  might  yield,  and  that  in 
experienced  and  skillful  hands  it  might  be  converted 
into  a  perfect  gold  mine.  But  he  realized,  too,  that 
experience  and  skill  were  just  what  he  lacked — and 
he  went  abroad  to  study  agriculture  and  technology 
— to  learn  them  from  the  first  rudiments.  More  than 
four  years  he  had  spent  in  Mecklenburg,  in  Silesia, 
and  in  Carlsruhe,  and  he  had  traveled  in  Belgium  and 
in  England.  He  had  worked  conscientiously  and  ac- 
cumulated information;  he  had  not  acquired  it  easily: 
but  he  had  persevered  through  his  difficulties  to  the 
end,  and  now  with  confidence  in  himself,  in  his  future. 
and  in  his  usefulness  to  his  neighbors,  perhaps  even 


SMOKE  9 

to  the  whole  countryside,  he  was  preparing  to  return 
home,  where  he  was  summoned  with  despairing  pray- 
ers and  entreaties  in  every  letter  from  his  father,  now 
completely  bewildered  by  the  emancipation,  the  re- 
division  of  lands,  and  the  terms  of  redemption — by 
the  new  regime  in  short.  But  why  was  he  in  Baden  ? 

Well,  he  was  in  Baden  because  he  was  from  day  to 
day  expecting  the  arrival  there  of  his  cousin  and 
betrothed,  Tatyana  Petrovna  Shestov.  He  had  known 
her  almost  from  childhood,  and  had  spent  the  spring 
and  summer  with  her  at  Dresden,  where  she  was  living 
with  her  aunt.  He  felt  sincere  love  and  profound 
respect  for  his  young  kinswoman,  and  on  the  con- 
clusion of  his  dull  preparatory  labors,  when  he  was 
preparing  to  enter  on  a  new  field,  to  begin  real,  un- 
official duties,  he  proposed  to  her  as  a  woman  dearly 
loved,  a  comrade  and  a  friend,  to  unite  her  life  with 
his — for  happiness  and  for  sorrow,  for  labor  and  for 
rest,  "for  better,  for  worse"  as  the  English  say.  She 
had  consented,  and  he  had  returned  to  Carlsruhe, 
where  his  books,  papers  and  properties  had  been  left 
.  .  .  But  why  was  he  at  Baden,  you  ask  again  ? 

Well,  he  was  at  Baden,  because  Tatyana's  aunt, 
who  had  brought  her  up,  Kapitolina  Markovna  Shes- 
tov, an  old  unmarried  lady  of  fifty-five,  a  most  good- 
natured,  honest,  eccentric  soul,  a  free  thinker,  all 
aglow  with  the  fire  of  self-sacrifice  and  abnegation, 
an  esprit  fort  (she  read  Strauss,  it  is  true  she  con- 
cealed the  fact  from  her  niece)  and  a  democrat, 
sworn  opponent  of  aristocracy  and  fashionable  society, 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  gazing  for  once  on 
this  aristocratic  society  in  such  a  fashionable  place  as 
Baden.  .  .  .  Kapitolina  Markovna  wore  no  crinoline 
and  had  her  white  hair  cut  in  a  round  crop,  but  luxury 
?nd  splendor  had  a  secret  fascination  for  her,  and  it 


io  SMOKE 

was  her  favorite  pastime  to  rail  at  them  and  express 
her  contempt  of  them.  How  could  one  refuse  to 
gratify  the  good  old  lady?  But  Litvinov  was  so  quiet 
and  simple,  he  gazed  so  self-confidently  about  him,  be- 
cause his  life  lay  so  clearly  mapped  out  before  him. 
because  his  career  was  defined,  and  because  he  was 
proud  of  this  career,  and  rejoiced  in  it  as  the  work  of 
his  own  hands. 


Ill 

"HULLO!  hullo!  here  he  is!"  he  suddenly  heard  a 
squeaky  voice  just  above  his  ear,  and  a  plump  hand 
slapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  He  lifted  his  head,  and 
perceived  one  of  his  few  Moscow  acquaintances,  a 
certain  Bambaev,  a  good-natured  but  good-for-nothing 
fellow.  He  was  no  longer  young,  he  had  a  flabby  nose 
and  soft  cheeks,  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  boiled, 
dishevelled  greasy  locks,  and  a  fat  squat  person. 
Everlastingly  short  of  cash,  and  everlastingly  in  rap- 
tures over  something,  Rostislav  Bambaev  wandered, 
aimless  but  exclamatory,  over  the  face  of  our  long- 
suffering  mother-earth. 

"Well,  this  is  something  like  a  meeting!"  he  re- 
peated, opening  wide  his  sunken  eyes,  and  drawing 
down  his  thick  lips,  over  which  the  straggling  dyed 
moustaches,  seemed  strangely  out  of  place.  "Ah, 
Baden!  All  the  world  runs  here  like  black-beetles! 
How  did  you  come  here,  Grisha?" 

There  was  positively  no  one  in  the  world  Bambaev 
did  not  address  by  his  Christian  name. 

"I  came  here  three  days  ago." 

"From  where?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Why  indeed?  But  stop,  stop  a  minute,  Grisha. 
You  are,  perhaps,  not  aware  who  has  just  arrived 
here!  Gubaryov  himself,  in  person!  That's  who's 
here!  He  came  yesterday  from  Heidelberg.  You 
know  him  of  course?" 

"I  have  heard  of  him." 


12  SMOKE 

"Is  that  all?  Upon  my  word!  At  once,  this  very 
minute  we  will  haul  you  along  to  him.  Not  know  a 
man  like  that!  And  by  the  way  here's  Voroshilov. 
.  .  .  Stop  a  minute,  Grisha,  perhaps  you  don't  know 
him  either?  I  have  the  honor  to  present  you  to  one 
another.  Both  learned  men !  He's  a  phoenix,  indeed ! 
Kiss  each  other !" 

And  uttering  these  words,  Bambaev  turned  to  a 
good-looking  young  man  standing  near  him  with  a 
fresh  and  rosy,  but  prematurely  demure  face.  Lit- 
vinov  got  up,  and,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  did  not  kiss 
him,  but  exchanged  a  cursory  bow  with  the  phoenix, 
who,  to  judge  from  the  severity  of  his  demeanor,  was 
not  overpleased  at  this  unexpected  introduction. 

"I  said  a  phoenix,  and  I  will  not  g©  back  from  my 
word,"  continued  Bambaev ;  "go  to  Petersburg,  to  the 
military  school,  and  look  at  the  golden  board ;  whose 
name  stands  first  there?  The  name  of  Voroshilov, 
Semyon  Yakovlevitch !  But,  Gubaryov,  Gubaryov, 
my  dear  fellow!  It's  to  him  we  must  fly!  I  abso- 
lutely worship  that  man!  And  I'm  not  alone,  every 
one's  at  his  feet !  Ah,  what  a  work  he  is  writing,  O — 
O— O!  .  .  ." 

"What  is  his  work  about?"  inquired  Litvinov. 

"About  everything,  my  dear  boy,  after  the  style 
of  Buckle,  you  know  .  .  .  but  more  profound,  more 
profound.  .  .  .  Everything  will  be  solved  and  made 
clear  in  it?" 

"And  have  you  read  this  work  yourself?" 

"No,  I  have  not  read  it,  and  indeed  it's  a  secret, 
which  must  not  be  spread  about;  but  from  Gubaryov 
one  may  expect  everything,  everything!  Yes!"  Bam- 
baev sighed  and  clasped  his  hands.  "Ah,  if  we  had 
two  or  three  intellects  like  that  growing  up  in  Rus- 
sia, ah,  what  mightn't  we  see  then,  my  God !  I  tell  you 


SMOKE  13 

one  thing,  Grisha;  whatever  pursuit  you  may  have 
been  engaged  in  in  these  latter  days — and  I  don't  even 
know  what  your  pursuits  are  in  general — whatever 
your  jconvictions  may  be — I  don't  know  them  either — 
from  him,  Gubaryov,  you  will  find  something  to  learn. 
Unluckily,  he  is  not  here  for. long.  We  must  make 
the  most  of  him,  we  must  go.  To  him,  to  him!" 

A  passing  dandy  with  reddish  curls  and  a  blue 
ribbon  on  his  low  hat,  turned  round  and  stared  through 
his  eyeglass  with  a  sarcastic  smile  at  Bambaev.  Lit'.' 
vinov  felt  irritated. 

"What  are  you  shouting  for?"  he  said;  "one  would 
think  you  were  hallooing  dogs  on  at  a  hunt !  I  have 
not  had  dinner  yet." 

"Well,  think  of  that!  we  can  go  at  once  to  Weber's 
...  the  three  of  us  ...  capital !  You  have  the  cash- 
to  pay  for  me  ?"  he  added  in  an  undertone. 

"Ye§,  yes ;  only,  I  really  don't  know " 

"Leave  off,  please ;  you  will  thank  me  for  it,  and  he 
will  be  delighted.  Ah,  heavens !"  Bambaev  interrupted 
himself.  "It's  the  finale  from  Ernani  they're  play- 
ing. How  delicious!  .  .  .  A  som  .  .  .  mo  Carlo. 
.  .  .  What  a  fellow  I  am,  though !  In  tears  in  a  min- 
ute. Well,  Semyon  Yakovlevitch !  Voroshilov!  shall 
we  go,  eh  ?" 

Voroshilov,  who  had  remained  all  the  while  stand- 
ing with  immovable  propriety,  still  maintaining  his  for- 
mer haughty  dignity  of  demeanor,  dropped. his  eyes 
expressively,  frowned,  and  muttered  something  be- 
tween his  teeth  .  .  .  but  he  did  not  refuse;  and  Lit- 
vinov  thought,  "Well,  we  may  as  well  do  it,  as  I've 
plenty  of  time  on  my  hands."  Bambaev  took  his  arm, 
but  before  turning  towards  the  cafe  he  beckoned  to 
Isabelle  the  renowned  flower-girl  of  the  Jockey  Club: 
he  had  conceived  the  idea  of  buying  a  bunch  of  flowers 


14  SMOKE 

of  her.  But  the  aristocratic  flower-girl  did  not  stir; 
and,  indeed,  what  should  induce  her  to  approach  a  gen- 
tleman without  gloves,  in  a  soiled  fustian  jacket, 
streaky  cravat,  and  boots  trodden  down  at  heel,  whom 
she  had  not  even  seen  in  Paris?  Then  Voroshilov  in 
his  turn  beckoned  to  her.  To  him  she  responded,  and 
he,  taking  a  tiny  bunch  of  violets  from  her  basket, 
flung  her  a  florin.  He  thought  to  astonish  her  by  his 
munificence,  but  not  an  eyelash  on  her  face  quivered, 
and  when  he  had  turned  away,  she  pursed  up  her 
mouth  contemptuously.  Voroshilov  was  dressed  very 
fashionably,  even  exquisitely,  but  the  experienced  eye 
of  the  Parisian  girl  noted  at  once  in  his  get-up  and  in 
his  bearing,  in  his  very  walk,  which  showed  traces  of 
premature  military  drill,  the  absence  of  genuine,  pure- 
blooded  "chic." 

When  they  had  taken  their  seats  in  the  principal 
dining-hall  at  Weber's,  and  ordered  dinner,  our  friends 
fell  into  conversation.  Bambaev  discoursed  loudly  and 
hotly  upon  the  immense  importance  of  Gubaryov,  but 
soon  he  ceased  speaking,  and,  gasping  and  chewing 
noisily,  drained  off  glass  after  glass.  Voroshilov  ate 
and  drank  little,  and  as  it  were  reluctantly,  and  after 
questioning  Litvinov  as  to  the  nature  of  his  interests, 
fell  to  giving  expression  to  his  own  opinions — not  so 
much  on  those  interests,  as  on  questions  of  various 
kinds  in  general.  .  .  .  All  at  once  he  warmed  up,  and 
set  off  at  a  gallop  like  a  spirited  horse,  boldly  and 
decisively  assigning  to  every  syllable,  every  letter,  its 
due  weight,  .like  a  confident  cadet  going  up  for  his 
"final"  examination,  with  vehement,  but  in  appropriate 
gestures.  At  every  instant,  since  no  one  interrupted 
him,  he  became  more  eloquent,  more  emphatic;  it 
seemed  as  though  he  were  reading  a  dissertation  or 
lecture.  The  names  of  the  most  recent  scientific  au- 


SMOKE  15 

thorities — with  the  addition  of  the  dates  of  the  birth 
or  death  of  each  of  them — the  titles  of  pamphlets  that 
had  only  just  appeared,  and  names,  names,  names 
.  .  .  fell  in  showers  together  from  his  tongue,  afford- 
ing himself  intense  satisfaction,  reflected  in  his  glow- 
ing eyes.  Voroshilov,  seemingly,  despised  everything 
old,  and  attached  value  only  to  the  cream  of  culture, 
the  latest,  most  advanced  points  of  science ;  to  mention, 
however  inappropriately,  a  book  of  some  Doctor  Zau- 
erbengel  on  Pennsylvanian  prisons,  or  yesterday's 
articles  in  the  Asiatic  Journal  on  the  Vedas  and  Pu- 
ranas  (he  pronounced  it  Journal  in  the  English  fash- 
ion, though  he  certainly  did  not  know  English)  was 
for  him  a  real  joy,  a  felicity.  Litvinov  listened  and 
listened  to  him,  and  could  not  make  out  what  could  be 
his  special  line.  At  one  moment  his  talk  was  of  the 
part  played  by  the  Celtic  race  in  history ;  then  he  was 
carried  away  to  the  ancient  world,  and  discoursed  upon 
the  ^Eginetan  marbles,  harangued  with  great  warmth 
on  the  sculptor  living  earlier  than  Phidias,  Onetas, 
who  was,  however,  transformed  by  him  into  Jonathan, 
which  lent  his  whole  discourse  a  half-Biblical,  half- 
American  flavor;  then  he  suddenly  bounded  away  to 
political  economy  and  called  Bastiat  a  fool  or  a  block- 
head, "as  bad  as  Adam  Smith  and  all  the  physiocrats." 
"Physiocrats,"  murmured  Bambaev  after  him  .  .  . 
"aristocrats?"  Among  other  things  Voroshilov  called 
forth  an  expression  of  bewilderment  on  Bambaev's 
face  by  criticism,  dropped  casually  in  passing,  of  Ma- 
•  caulay,  as  an  old-fashioned  writer,  superseded  by  mod- 
ern historical  science;  as  for  Gneist,  he  declared  he 
need  scarcely  refer  to  him,  and  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. Bambaev  shrugged  his  shoulders  too.  "And  all 
this  at  once,  without  any  inducement,  before  strangers, 
in  a  cafe — Litvinov  reflected,  looking  at  the  fair  hair, 


16  SMOKE 

clear  eyes,  and  white  teeth  of  his  new  acquaintance 
(he  was  specially  embarrassed  by  those  large  sugar- 
white  teeth,  and  those  hands  with  their  inappropriate 
gesticulations),  "and  he  doesn't  once  smile;  and  with 
it  all,  he  would  seem  to  be  a  nice  lad,  and  absolutely 
inexperienced."  Voroshilov  began  to  calm  down  at 
last,  his  voice,  youthfully  resonant  and  shrill  as  a 
young  cock's,  broke  a  little  .  .  .  Bambaev  seized  the 
opportunity  to  declaim  verses  and  again  nearly  burst 
into  tears,  which  scandalized  one  table  near  them, 
round  which  was  seated  an  English  family,  and  set 
another  tittering;  two  Parisian  cocottes  were  dining 
at  this  second  table  with  a  creature  who  resembled 
an  ancient  baby  in  a  wig.  The  waiter  brought  the  bill ; 
the  friends  paid  it. 

"Well,"  cried  Bambaev,  getting  heavily  up  from  his 
chair,  "now  for  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  quick  march. 
There  she  is,  our  Russia,"  he  added,  stopping  in  the 
doorway,  and  pointing  almost  rapturously  with  his 
soft  red  hand  to  Voroshilov  and  Litvinov.  .  .  . 
"What  do  you  think  of  her?  .  .  ." 

"Russia,  indeed,"  thought  Litvinov;  and  Voroshilov, 
whose  face  had  by  now  regained  its  concentrated  ex- 
pression, again  smiled  condescendingly,  and  gave  a  lit- 
tle tap  with  his  heels. 

Within  five  minutes  they  were  all  three  mounting 
the  stairs  of  the  hotel  where  Stepan  Nikolaitch  Gubar- 
yov  was  staying.  ...  A  tall  slender  lady,  in  a  hat 
with  a  short  black  veil,  was  coming  quickly  down  the 
same  staircase.  Catching  sight  of  Litvinov  she  turned 
suddenly  round  to  him,  and  stopped  still  as  though 
struck  by  amazement.  Her  face  flushed  instantane- 
ously, and  then  as  quickly  grew  pale  under  its  thick 
lace  veil;  but  Litvinov  did  not  observe  her,  and  the 
lady  ran  down  the  wide  steps  more  quickly  than 
before. 


IV 

"GRIGORY  LITVINOV,  a  brick,  a  true  Russian  heart. 
I  commend  him  to  you,"  cried  Bambaev,  conducting 
Litvinov  up  to  a  short  man  of  the  figure  of  a  country 
gentleman,  with  an  unbuttoned  collar,  in  a  short 
jacket,  gray  morning  trousers  and  slippers,  standing 
in  the  middle  of  a  light,  and  very  well- furnished  room ; 
"and  this,"  he  added,  addressing  himself  to  Litvinov, 
"is  he, 'the  man  himself,  do  you  understand?  Gubar- 
yov,  then,  in  a  word." 

Litvinov  stared  with  curiosity  at  "the  man  him- 
self." He  did  not  at  first  sight  find  in  him  anything 
out  of  the  common.  He  saw  before  him  a  gentleman 
of  respectable,  somewhat  dull  exterior,  with  a  broad 
forehead,  large  eyes,  full  lips,  a  big  beard,  and  a  thick- 
neck,  with  a  fixed  gaze,  bent  sidelong  and  downwards. 
This  gentleman  simpered,  and  said,  "Mmm.  .  .  . 
ah  ...  very  pleased,  .  .  ."  raised  his  hand  to  his 
own  face,  and  at  once  turning  his  back  on  Litvinov, 
took  a  few  paces  upon  the  carpet,  with  a  slow  and 
peculiar  shuffle,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  slink  along 
unseen.  Gubaryov  had  the  habit  of  continually  walk- 
ing up  and  down,  and  constantly  plucking  and  comb- 
ing his  beard  with  the  tips  of  his  long  hard  nails. 
Besides  Gubaryov,  there  was  also  in  the  room  a  lady 
of  about  fifty,  in  a  shabby  silk  dress,  with  an  exces- 
sively mobile  face  almost  as  yellow  as  a  lemon,  a  little 
black  moustache  on  her  upper  lip,  and  eyes  which 
moved  so  quickly  that  they  seemed  as  though  they 
17 


18  SMOKE 

were  jumping  out  of  her  head ;  there  was  too  a  broad- 
shouldered  man  sitting  bent  up  in  a  corner. 

"Well,  honored  Matrona  Semyonovna,"  began 
Gubaryov,  turning  to  the  lady,  and  apparently  not  con- 
sidering it  necessary  to  introduce  Litvinov  to  her, 
"what  was  it  you  were  beginning  to  tell  us?" 

The  lady  (her  name  was  Matrona  Semyonovna 
Suhantchikov — she  was  a  widow,  childless,  and  not 
rich,  and  had  ben  traveling  from  country  to  country 
for  two  years  past)  began  with  peculiar  exasperated 
vehemence : 

"Well,  so  he  appears  before  the  prince  and  says  to 
him:  'Your  Excellency,'  he  says,  'in  such  an  office 
and  such  a  position  as  yours,  what  will  it  cost  you  to 
alleviate  my  lot?  You/  he  says,  'cannot  but  respect 
the  purity  of  my  ideas !  And  is  it  possible,'  he  says,  'in 
these  days  to  persecute  a  man  for  his  ideas?'  And 
what  do  you  suppose  the  prince  did,  that  cultivated 
dignitary  in  that  exalted  position  ?" 

"Why,  what  did  he  do?"  observed  Gubaryov,  light- 
ing a  cigarette  with  a  meditative  air. 

The  lady  drew  herself  up  and  held  out  her  bony 
right  hand,  with  the  first  finger  separated  from  the 
rest. 

"He  called  his  groom  and  said  to  him,  'Take  off 
that  man's  coat  at  once,  and  keep  it  yourself.  I  make 
you  a  present  of  that  coat!'  " 

"And  did  the  groom  take  it?"  asked  Bambaev, 
throwing  up  his  arms. 

"He  took  it  and  kept  it.  And  that  was  done  by 
Prince  Barnaulov,  the  well-known  rich  grandee,  in- 
vested with  special  powers,  the  representative  of 
the  government.  What  is  one  to  expect  after 
that!" 

The  whole  frail  person  of  Madame  Suhantchikov 


SMOKE  19 

was  shaking  with  indignation,  spasms  passed  over  her 
face,  her  withered  bosom  was  heaving  convulsively  un- 
der her  flat  corset;  of  her  eyes  it  is  needless  to  speak, 
they  were  fairly  leaping  out  of  her  head.  But  then 
they  were  always  leaping,  whatever  she  might  be  talk* 
ing  about. 

"A  crying  shame,  a  crying  shame!"  cried  Bambaev, 
"No  punishment  could  be  bad  enough !" 

"Mmm.  .  .  .  Mmm.  .  .  .  From  top  to  bottom  it's 
all  rotten,"  observed  Gubaryov,  without  raising  his 
voice,  however.  In  that  case  punishment  is  not  .  .  . 
that  needs  .  .  .  other  measures." 

"But  is  it  really  true?"  commented  Litvinov. 

"Is  it  true?"  broke  in  Madame  Suhantchikov. 
"Why,  that  one  can't  even  dream  of  doubting  .  .  . 
can't  even  d — d — d — ream  of  it."  She  pronounced 
these  words  with  such  energy  that  she  was  fairly 
shaking  with  the  effort.  "I  was  told  of  that  by  a 
very  trustworthy  man.  And  you,  Stepan  Nikolaitch, 
know  him — Elistratov,  Kapiton.  He  heard  it  himself 
from  eyewitnesses,  spectators  of  this  disgraceful 
scene." 

"What  Elistratov?"  inquired  Gubaryov.  "The  one 
who  was  in  Kazan?" 

"Yes.  I  know,  Stepan  Nikolaitch,  a  rumor  was 
spread  about  him  that  he  took  bribes  there  from  some 
contractors  or  distillers.  But  then  who  is  it  says  so? 
Pelikanov!  And  how  can  one  believe  Pelikanov, 
when  every  one  knows  he  is  simply — a  spy!" 

"No,  with  your  permission,  Matrona  Semyonovna," 
interposed  Bambaev,  "I  am  friends  with  Pelikanov, 
he  is  not  a  spy  at  all." 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  just  what  he  is,  a  spy!" 

"But  wait  a  minute,  kindly " 

"A  spy,  a  spy!"  shrieked  Madame  Suhantchikov. 


20  SMOKE 

"No,  no,  one  minute,  I  tell  you  what,"  shrieked 
Bambaev  in  his  turn. 

"A  spy,  a  spy,"  persisted  Madame  Suhantchikov. 

"No,  no !  There's  Tentelyev  now,  that's  a  different 
matter,"  roared  Bambaev  with  all  the  force  of  his 
lungs. 

Madame  Suhantchikov  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  know  for  a  fact  about  that  gentleman,"  he  con- 
tinued in  his  ordinary  voice,  "that  when  he  was  sum- 
moned before  the  secret  police,  he  groveled  at  the  feet 
of  the  Countess  Blazenkrampff  and  kept  whining, 
'Save  me,  intercede  for  me !'  But  Pelikanov  never  de- 
meaned himself  to  baseness  like  that." 

"Mm.  .  .  .  Tentelyev  .  .  ."  muttered  Gubaryov, 
"that  .  .  .  that  ought  to  be  noted." 

Madame  Suhantchikov  shrugged  her  shoulders  con- 
temptuously. 

"They're  one  worse  than  another,"  she  said,  "but  I 
know  a  still  better  story  about  Tentelyev.  He  was,  as 
every  one  knows,  a  most  horrible  despot  with  his  serfs, 
though  he  gave  himself  out  for  an  emancipator.  Well, 
he  was  once  at  some  friend's  house  in  Paris,  and  sud- 
denly in  comes  Madame  Beecher  Stowe — you  know, 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.  Tentelyev,  who's  an  awfully 
pushing  fellow,  began  asking  the  host  to  present  him ; 
but  directly  she  heard  his  name.  'What?'  she  said, 
'he  presumes  to  be  introduced  to  the  author  of  Uncle 
Tom?'  And  she  gave  him  a  slap  on  the  cheek !  'Go 
away!'  she  says,  'at  once!'  And  what  do  you  think? 
Tentelyev  took  his  hat  and  slunk  away,  pretty  crest- 
fallen." 

"Come,  I  think  that's  exaggerated,"  observed  Bam- 
baev. "  'Go  away'  she  certainly  did  say,  that's  a  fact, 
but  she  didn't  give  him  a  smack !" 

"She  did,  she  did !"  repeated  Madame  Suhantchikov 


SMOKE  21 

with  convulsive  intensity :  "I  am  not  talking  idle  gos- 
sip. And  you  are  friends  with  men  like  that!" 

"Excuse  me,  excuse  me,  Matrona  Semyonovna,  I 
never  spoke  of  Tentelyev  as  a  friend  of  mine;  I  was 
speaking  of  Pelikanov." 

"Well,  if  it's  not  Tentelyev,  it's  another.  Mihnyov, 
for  example." 

"What  did  he  do  then?"  asked  Bambaev,  already 
showing  signs  of  alarm. 

"What?  Is  it  possible  you  don't  know?  He  ex- 
claimed on  the  Poznesensky  Prospect  in  the  hearing  of 
all  the  world  that  all  the  liberals  ought  to  be  in  prison ; 
and  what's  more,  an  old  schoolfellow  came  to  him,  a 
poor  man  of  course,  and  said,  'Can  I  come  to  dinner 
with  you?'  And  this  was  his  answer.  'No,  impos- 
sible; I  have  two  counts  dining  with  me  to-day  .  .  . 
get  along  with  you!'  " 

"But  that's  slander,  upon  my  word!"  vociferated 
Bambaev. 

"Slander?  .  .  .  slander?  In  the  first  place,  Prince 
Vahrushkin,  who  was  also  dining  at  your  Mihn- 

"Prince  Vahrushkin,"  Gubaryov  interpolated  se- 
verely, "is  my  cousin ;  but  I  don't  allow  him  to  enter 
my  house.  ...  So  there  is  no  need  to  mention  him, 
even." 

"In  the  second  place,"  continued  Madame  Suhant- 
chikov,  with  a  submissive  nod  in  Gubaryov's  direction, 
"Praskovya  Yakovlevna  told  me  so  herself." 

"You  have  hit  on  a  fine  authority  to  quote !  Why, 
she  and  Sarkizov  are  the  greatest  scandal-mongers 
going." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sarkizov  is  a  liar,  certainly. 
He  filched  the  very  pall  of  brocade  off  his  dead  father's 
coffin.  I  will  never  dispute  that;  but  Praskovya 


22  SMOKE 

Yakovlovna — there's  no  comparison !  Remember  how 
magnanimously  she  parted  from  her  husband!  But 
you,  I  know,  are  always  ready " 

"Come,  enough,  enough,  Matrona  Semyonovna,  said 
Bambaev,  interrupting  her,  "let  us  give  up  this  tittle- 
tattle,  and  take  a  loftier  flight.  I  am  not  new  to  the 
work,  you  know.  Have  you  read  Mile,  de  la  Quin- 
tinie?  That's  something  charming  now!  And  quite 
in  accord  with  your  principles  at  the  same  time!" 

"I  never  read  novels  now,"  was  Madame  Suhant- 
chikov's  dry  and  sharp  reply. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  have  not  the  time  now;  I  have  no 
thoughts  now  but  for  one  thing,  sewing  machines." 

"What  machines?"  inquired  Litvinov. 

"Sewing,  sewing;  all  women  ought  to  provide  them- 
selves with  sewing-machines,  and  form  societies ;  in 
that  way  they  will  all  be  enabled  to  earn  their  living, 
and  will  become  independent  at  once.  In  no  other 
way  can  they  ever  be  emancipated.  That  is  an  im- 
portant, most  important  social  question.  I  had  such  an 
argument  about  it  with  Boleslav  Stadnitsky.  Boleslav 
Stadnitsky  is  a  marvelous  nature,  but  he  looks  at  these 
things  in  an  awfully  frivolous  spirit.  He  does  nothing 
but  laugh.  Idiot!" 

"All  will  in  their  due  time  be  called  to  account,  from 
all  it  will  be  exacted,"  pronounced  Gubaryov  delib- 
erately, in  a  tone  half-professorial,  half -prophetic. 

"Yes,  yes,"  repeated  Bambaev,  "it  will  be  exacted, 
precisely  so,  it  will  be  exacted.  But,  Stepan  Niko- 
laitch,"  he  added,  dropping  his  voice,  "how  goes  the 
great  work  ?" 

"I  am  collecting  materials,"  replied  Gubaryov,  knit- 
ting his  brows ;  and,  turning  to  Litvinov,  whose  head 
began  to  swim  from  the  medley  of  unfamiliar  names, 


SMOKE  23 

and  the  frenzy  of  backbiting,  he  asked  him  what  sub- 
jects he  was  interested  in. 

Litvinov  satisfied  his  curiosity. 

"Ah !  to  be  sure,  the  natural  sciences.  That  is  use- 
ful, as  training;  as  training,  not  as  an  end  in  itself. 
The  end  at  present  should  be  ...  mm.  .  .  .  should 
be  ...  different.  Allow  me  to  ask  what  views  do  you 
hold?" 

"What  views?" 

"Yes,  that  is,  more  accurately  speaking,  what  are 
your  political  views?" 

Litvinov  smiled. 

"Strictly  speaking,  I  have  no  political  views." 

The  broad-shouldered  man  sitting  in  the  corner 
raised  his  head  quickly  at  these  words  and  looked  at- 
tentively at  Litvinov. 

"How  is  that?"  observed  Gubaryov  with  peculiar 
gentleness.  "Have  you  not  yet  reflected  on  the  sub- 
ject, or  have  you  grown  weary  of  it?" 

"How  shall  I  say?  It  seems  to  me  that  for  us 
Russians,  it  is  too  early  yet  to  have  political  views 
or  to  imagine  that  we  have  them.  Observe  that  I  at- 
tribute to  the  word  'political'  the  meaning  which  be- 
longs to  it  by  right,  and  that " 

"Aha!  he  belongs  to  the  undeveloped,"  Gubaryov 
interrupted  him,  with  the  same  gentleness,  and  going 
up  to  Voroshilov,  he  asked  him:  'Had  he  read  the 
pamphlet  he  had  given  him  ?' 

Voroshilov,  to  Litvinov's  astonishment,  had  not  ut- 
tered a  word  ever  since  his  entrance,  but  had  only 
knitted  his  brows  and  rolled  his  eyes  (as  a  rule  he 
?vas  either  speechifying  or  else  perfectly  dumb).  He 
now  expanded  his  chest  in  soldierly  fashion,  and  with 
a  tap  of  his  heels,  nodded  assent. 

"Well,  and  how  was  it?    Did  you  like  it?" 


24  SMOKE 

"As  regards  the  fundamental  principles,  I  liked  it; 
but  I  did  not  agree  with  the  inferences." 

"Mmm.  .  .  .  Andrei  Ivanitch  praised  that  pam- 
phlet, however.  You  must  expand  your  doubts  to  me 
later." 

"You  desire  it  in  writing?" 

Gubaryov  was  obviously  surprised ;  he  had  not  ex- 
pected this;  however,  after  a  moment's  thought,  he 
replied : 

"Yes,  in  writing.  By  the  way,  I  will  ask  you  to 
explain  to  me  your  views  also  ...  in  regard  to  ... 
in  regard  to  associations." 

"Associations  on  Lassalle's  system,  do  you  desire, 
or  on  the  system  of  Schulze-Delitzsch  ?" 

"Mmm.  ...  on  both.  For  us  Russians,  you  under- 
stand, the  financial  aspect  of  the  matter  is  specially 
important.  Yes,  and  the  artel  ...  as  the  germ.  .  .  . 
All  that,  one  must  take  note  of.  One  must  go  deeply 
into  it.  And  the  question,  too,  of  the  land  to  be  appor- 
tioned to  the  peasants.  .  .  ." 

"And  you,  Stepan  Nikolaitch,  what  is  your  view  as 
to  the  number  of  acres  suitable?"  inquired  VoroshiJov, 
with  reverential  delicacy  in  his  voice. 

"Mmm.  .  .  .  and  the  commune?"  articulated  Gub- 
aryov, deep  in  thought,  and  biting  a  tuft  of  his  beard 
he  stared  at  the  table-leg.  "The  commune!  .  .  .  Do 
you  understand?  That  is  a  grand  word!  Then  what 
is  the  significance  of  these  conflagrations?  these  .  .  . 
these  government  measures  against  Sunday-schools, 
reading-rooms,  journals?  And  the  refusal  of  the  peas- 
ants to  sign  the  charters  regulating  their  position  in 
the  future?  And  finally,  what  of  what  is  happening 
in  Poland?  Don't  you  see  that  .  .  .  mmm.  .  .  . 
that  we  ...  we  have  to  unite  with  the  people  .  .  . 
find  out  .  .  .  find  out  their  views "  Suddenly  a 


SMOKE  25 

heavy,  almost  a  wrathful  emotion  seemed  to  take  pos- 
session of  Gubaryov ;  he  even  grew  black  in  the  face 
and  breathed  heavily,  but  still  did  not  raise  his  eyes, 
and  continued  to  gnaw  at  his  beard.  "Can't  you 

j) 

"Yevseyev  is  a  wretch!"  Madame  Suhantchikov 
burst  out  noisily  all  of  a  sudden.  Bambaev  had  been 
relating  something  to  her  in  a  voice  lowered  out  of 
respect  for  their  host.  Gubaryov  turned  round  swiftly 
on  his  heels,  and  again  began  limping  about  the  room. 

Fresh  guests  began  to  arrive;  towards  the  end  of 
the  evening  a  good  many  people  were  assembled. 
Among  them  came,  too,  Mr.  Yevseyev  whom  Madame 
Suhantchikov  had  vilified  so  cruelly.  She  entered  into 
conversation  with  him  very  cordially,  and  asked  him  to 
escort  her  home;  there  arrived,  too,  a  certain  Pisht- 
chalkin,  an  ideal  mediator,  one  of  those  men  of  whom 
precisely,  perhaps,  Russia  stands  in  need — a  man, 
that  is,  narrow,  of  little  information,  and  no  great 
gifts,  but  conscientious,  patient,  and  honest;  the  peas- 
ants of  his  district  almost  worshiped  him,  and  he  re- 
garded himself  very  respectfully  as  a  creature  genu- 
inely deserving  of  esteem.  A  few  officers,  too,  were 
there,  escaped  for  a  brief  furlough  to  Europe,  and  re- 
joicing— though  of  course  warily,  and  ever  mindful  of 
their  colonel  in  the  background  of  their  brains — in 
the  opportunity  of  dallying  a  little  with  intellectual — 
even  rather  dangerous — people;  two  lanky  students 
from  Heidelberg  came  hurrying  in,  one  looked  about 
him  very  contemptuously,  the  other  giggled  spasmodic- 
ally .  .  .  both  were  very  ill  at  ease;  after  them  a 
Frenchman — a  so-called  petit  jeune  homme — poked  his 
nose  in;  a  nasty,  silly,  pitiful  little  creature,  .  .  .  who 
enjoyed  some  repute  among  his  fellow  commis- 
voyageurs  on  the  theory  that  Russian  countesses  had 


26  SMOKE 

fallen  in  love  with  him ;  for  his  own  part,  his  reflections 
were  centered  more  upon  getting  a  supper  gratis ;  the 
last  to  appear  was  Tit  Bindasov,  in  appearance  a  rol- 
licking German  student,  in  reality  a  skinflint,  in  words 
a  terrorist,  by  vocation  a  police-officer,  a  friend  of 
Russian  merchants'  wives  and  Parisian  cocottes;  bald, 
toothless,  and  drunken;  he  arrived  very  red  and  sod- 
den, affirming  that  he  had  lost  his  last  farthing  to  that 
blackguard  Benazet;  in  reality,  he  had  won  sixteen 
guldens.  ...  In  short,  there  were  a  number  of  peo- 
ple. Remarkable — really  remarkable — was  the  respect 
with  which  all  these  people  treated  Gubaryov  as  a  pre- 
ceptor or  chief;  they  laid  their  ideas  before  him,  and 
submitted  them  to  his  judgment;  and  he  replied  by 
muttering,  plucking  at  his  beard,  averting  his  eyes,  or 
by  some  disconnected,  meaningless  words,  which  were 
at  once  seized  upon  as  the  utterances  of  the  loftiest 
wisdom  Gubaryov  himself  seldom  interposed  in  the  dis- 
cussions; but  the  others  strained  their  lungs  to  the 
utmost  to  make  up  for  it.  It  happened  more  than 
once  that  three  or  four  were  shouting  for  ten  minutes 
together,  and  all  were  content  and  understood.  The 
conversation  lasted  till  after  midnight,  and  was  as 
usual  distinguished  by  the  number  and  variety  of  the 
subjects  discussed.  Madame  Suhantchikov  talked 
about  Garibaldi,  about  a  certain  Karl  Ivanovitch,  who 
had  been  flogged  by  the  serfs  of  his  own  household, 
about  Napoleon  III.,  about  women's  work,  about  a 
merchant,  Pleskatchov,  who  had  designedly  caused  the 
death  of  twelve  workwomen,  and  had  received  a  medal 
for  it  with  the  inscription  "for  public  services":  about 
the  proletariat,  about  the  Georgian  Prince  Tchuktcheu- 
lidzov,  who  had  shot  his  wife  with  a  cannon,  and  about 
the  future  of  Russia.  Pishtchalkin,  too,  talked  of  the 
future  of  Russia,  and  of  the  spirit  monopoly,  and  of 


SMOKE  27 

the  significance  of  nationalities,  and  of  how  he  hated 
above  everything  what  was  vulgar.  There  was  an  out- 
burst all  of  a  sudden  from  Voroshilov;  in  a  single 
breath,  almost  choking  himself,  he  mentioned  Draper, 
Virchow,  Shelgunov,  Bichat,  Helmholtz,  Star,  St.  Ray- 
mund,  Johann  Miiller  the  physiologist,  and  Johann 
Miiller  the  historian — obviously  confounding  them — 
Taine,  Renan,  Shtchapov ;  and  then  Thomas  Nash, 
Peele,  Greene.  .  .  .  "What  sort  of  queer  fish  may  they 
be?"  Bambaev  muttered,  bewildered,  Shakespeare's 
predecessors  having  the  same  relation  to  him  as  the 
ranges  of  the  Alps  to  Mont  Blanc.  Voroshilov  replied 
cuttingly,  and  he,  too,  touched  on  the  future  of  Rus- 
sia. Bambaev  also  spoke  of  the  future  of  Russia,  and 
even  depicted  it  in  glowing  colors :  but  he  was  thrown 
into  special  raptures  over  the  thought  of  Russian 
music,  in  which  he  saw  something.  "Ah!  great,  in- 
deed !"  and  in  confirmation  he  began  humming  a  song 
of  Varlamov's,  but  was  soon  interrupted  by  a  general 
shout,  "He  is  singing  the  Miserere  from  the  Trover- 
tore,  and  singing  it  excruciatingly  too."  One  little 
officer  was  reviling  Russian  literature  in  the  midst  of 
the  hubbub ;  another  was  quoting  verses  from  Sparks; 
but  Tit  Bindasov  went  even  further;  he  declared  that 
all  these  swindlers  ought  to  have  their  teeth  knocked 
out,  .  .  .  and  that's  all  about  it,  but  he  did  not  particu- 
larize who  were  the  swindlers  alluded  to.  The  smoke 
from  the  cigars  became  stifling;  all  were  hot  and  ex- 
hausted, every  one  was  horse,  all  eyes  were  growing 
dim,  and  the  perspiration  stood  out  in  drops  on  every 
face.  Bottles  of  iced  beer  were  brought  in  and  drunk 
off  instantaneously.  "What  was  I  saying?"  remarked 
one;  "and  with  whom  was  I  disputing,  and  about 
what?"  inquired  another.  And  among  all  the  uproar 
and  the  smoke,  Gubaryov  walked  indefatigably  up  and 


28  SMOKE 

down  as  before,  swaying  from  side  to  side  and  twitch- 
ing at  his  beard;  now  listening,  turning  an  ear  to 
some  controversy,  now  putting  in  a  word  of  his  own ; 
and  every  one  was  forced  to  feel  that  he,  Gubaryov, 
was  the  source  of  it  all,  that  he  was  the  master  here, 
and  the  most  eminent  personality.  .  .  . 

Litvinov,  towards  ten  o'clock,  began  to  have  a  ter- 
rible headache,  and,  taking  advantage  of  a  louder  out- 
burst of  general  excitement,  went  off  quietly  unob- 
served. Madame  Suhantchikov  had  recollected  a  fresh 
act  of  injustice  of  Prince  Barnaulov;  he  had  all  but 
given  orders  to  have  some  one's  ears  bitten  off. 

The  fresh  night  air  enfolded  Litvinov's  flushed  face 
caressingly,  the  fragrant  breeze  breathed  on  his  parched 
lips.  "What  is  it,"  he  thought  as  he  went  along  the 
dark  avenue,  "that  I  have  been  present  at?  Why  were 
they  met  together?  What  were  they  shouting,  scold- 
ing, and  making  such  a  pother  about?  What  was  it 
all  for?"  Litvinov  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  turn- 
ing into  Weber's,  he  picked  up  a  newspaper  and  asked 
for  an  ice.  The  newspaper  was  taken  up  with  a  dis- 
cussion on  the  Roman  question,  and  the  ice  turned  out 
to  be  very  nasty.  He  was  already  preparing  to  go 
home,  when  suddenly  an  unknown  person  in  a  wide- 
brimmed  hat  drew  near,  and  saying  in  Russian :  "I 
hope  I  am  not  in  your  way?"  sat  down  at  his  table. 
Only  then,  after  a  closer  glance  at  the  stranger,  Lit- 
vinov recognized  him  as  the  broad-shouldered  gentle- 
man hidden  away  in  a  corner  at  Gubaryov's,  who  had 
stared  at  him  with  such  attention  when  the  conver- 
sation had  turned  on  political  views.  During  the 
whole  evening  this  gentleman  had  not  once  opened  his 
mouth,  and  now,  sitting  down  near  Litvinov,  and 
taking  off  his  hat,  he  looked  at  him  with  an  expression 
of  friendliness  and  some  embarrassment. 


"MR.  GUBARYOV,  at  whose  rooms  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  you  to-day,"  he  began,  "did  not  introduce 
me  to  you ;  so  that,  with  your  leave,  I  will  now  intro- 
duce myself — Potugin,  retired  councillor.  I  was  in  the 
department  of  finances  in  St.  Petersburg.  I  hope  you 
do  not  think  it  strange.  ...  I  am  not  in  the  habit  as 
a  rule  of  making  friends  so  abruptly  .  .  .  but  with 
you.  .  .  ." 

Here  Potugin  grew  rather  mixed,  and  he  asked  the 
waiter  to  bring  him  a  little  glass  of  kirsch-wasser. 
"To  give  me  courage,"  he  added  with  a  smile. 

Litvinov  looked  with  redoubled  interest  at  the  last 
of  all  the  new  persons  with  whom  it  had  been  his  lot  to 
be  brought  into  contact  that  day.  His  thought  was  at 
once,  "He  is  not  the  same  as  those." 

Certainly  he  was  not.  There  sat  before  him,  drum- 
ming with  delicate  fingers  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  a 
broad-shouldered  man,  with  an  ample  frame  on  short 
legs,  a  downcast  head  of  curly  hair,  with  very  intel- 
ligent and  very  mournful  eyes  under  bushy  brows,  a 
thick  well-cut  mouth,  bad  teeth,  and  that  purely  Rus- 
sian nose  to  which  is  assigned  the  epithet  "potato"; 
a  man  of  awkward,  even  odd  exterior;  at  least,  he 
was  certainly  not  of  a  common  type.  He  was  care- 
lessly dressed :  his  old-fashioned  coat  hung  on  him  like 
a  sack,  and  his  cravat  was  twisted  awry.  His  sudden 
friendliness,  far  from  striking  Litvinov  as  intrusive, 
secretly  flattered  him ;  it  was  impossible  not  to  see  that 
it  was  not  a  common  practice  with  this  man  to  attach 
29 


3o  SMOKE 

himself  to  strangers.  He  made  a  curious  impression 
on  Litvinov;  he  awakened  in  him  respect  and  liking, 
and  a  kind  of  involuntary  compassion. 

"I  am  not  in  your  way  then?"  he  repeated  in  a  soft, 
rather  languid  and  faint  voice,  which  was  marvel- 
ously  in  keeping  with  his  whole  personality. 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  Litvinov ;  "quite  the  contrary, 
I  am  very  glad." 

"Really?  Well,  then,  I  am  glad,  too.  I  have  heard 
a  great  deal  about  you ;  I  know  what  you  are  engaged 
in,  and  what  your  plans  are.  It's  a  good  work.  That's 
why  you  were  silent  this  evening." 

"Yes;  you,  too,  said  very  little,  I  fancy,"  observed 
Litvinov. 

Potugin  sighed.  "The  others  said  enough  and  to 
spare.  I  listened.  Well,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  raising  his  eyebrows  with  a  rather  humorous 
expression,  "did  you  like  our  building  of  the  Tower  of 
Babel?" 

"That's  just  what  it  was.  You  have  expressed  it 
capitally.  I  kept  wanting  to  ask  those  gentlemen  what 
they  were  in  such  a  fuss  about." 

Potugin  sighed  again. 

"That's  the  whole  point  of  it,  that  they  don't  know 
that  themselves.  In  former  days  the  expression  used 
about  them  would  have  been :  'they  are  the  blind  in- 
struments of  higher  ends' ;  well,  nowadays  we  make 
use  of  sharper  epithets.  And  take  note  that  I  am  not 
in  the  least  intending  to  blame  them ;  I  will  say  more, 
they  are  all  ...  that  is,  almost  all,  excellent  people. 
Of  Madame  Suhantchikov,  for  instance,  I  know  for 
certain  much  that  is  good ;  she  gave  away  the  last  of 
her  fortune  to  two  poor  nieces.  Even  admitting  that 
the  desire  of  doing  something  picturesque,  of  showing 
herself  off.  was  not  without  its  influence  on  her,  still 


SMOKE  31 

you  will  agree  that  it  was  a  remarkable  act  of  selfv 
sacrifice  in  a  woman  not  herself  well-off!  Of  Mr. 
Pishtchalkin  there  is  no  need  to  speak,  even ;  the  peas- 
ants of  his  district  will  certainly  in  time  present  him 
with  a  silver  bowl  like  a  pumpkin,  and  perhaps  even 
a  holy  picture  representing  his  patron  saint,  and  though 
he  will  tell  them  in  his  speech  of  thanks  that  he  does 
not  deserve  such  an  honor,  he  won't  tell  the  truth 
there ;  he  does  deserve  it.  Mr.  Bambaev,  your  friend, 
has  a  wonderfully  good  heart;  it's  true  that  it's  with 
him  as  with  the  poet  Yazikov,  who  they  say  used  to 
sing  the  praises  of  Bacchic  revelry,  sitting  over  a  book 
and  sipping  water;  his  enthusiasm  is  completely  with- 
out a  special  object,  still  it  is  enthusiasm;  and  Mr. 
Voroshilov,  too,  is  the  most  good-natured  fellow;  like 
all  his  sort,  all  men  who've  taken  the  first  prizes  at 
school,  he's  an  aide-de-camp  of  the  sciences,  and  he 
even  holds  his  tongue  sententiously,  but  then  he  is  so 
young.  Yes,  yes,  they  are  all  excellent  people,  and 
when  you  come  to  results,  there's  nothing  to  show  for 
it ;  the  ingredients  are  all  first-rate,  but  the  dish  is  not 
worth  eating." 

Litvinov  listened  to  Potugin  with  growing  aston- 
ishment :  every  phrase,  every  turn  of  his  slow  but  self- 
confident  speech  betrayed  both  the  power  of  speaking 
and  the  desire  to  speak. 

Potugin  did,  in  fact,  like  speaking,  and  could  speak 
well;  but,  as  a  man  in  whom  life  had  succeeded  in 
wearing  away  vanity,  he  waited  with  philosophic  calm 
for  a  good  opportunity,  a  meeting  with  a  kindred 
spirit. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  began  again,  with  the  special  dejected 
but  not  peevish  humor  peculiar  to  him,  "it  is  all  very 
strange.  And  there  is  something  else  I  want  you  to 
note.  Let  a  dozen  Englishmen,  for  example,  come  to- 


32  SMOKE 

gather,  and  they  will  at  once  begin  to  talk  of  the  sub- 
marine telegraph,  or  the  tax  on  paper,  or  a  method  of 
tanning  rats'  skins, — of  something,  that's  to  say,  prac- 
tical and  definite;  a  dozen  Germans,  and  of  course 
Schleswig-Holstein  and  the  unity  of  Germany  will  be 
brought  on  the  scene;  given  a  dozen  Frenchmen,  and 
the  conversation  will  infallibly  turn  upon  amorous 
adventures,  however  much  you  try  to  divert  them  from 
the  subject;  but  let  a  dozen  Russians  meet  together, 
and  instantly  there  springs  up  the  question — you  had 
an  opportunity  of  being  convinced  of  the  fact  this 
evening — the  question  of  the  significance  and  the 
future  of  Russia,  and  in  terms  so  general,  beginning 
with  creation,  without  facts  or  conclusions.  They 
worry  and  worry  away  at  that  unlucky  subject,  as 
children  chew  away  at  a  bit  of  india-rubber — neither 
for  pleasure  nor  profit,  as  the  saying  is.  Well,  then, 
of  course  the  rotten  West  comes  in  for  its  share.  It's 
a  curious  thing,  it  beats  us  at  every  point,  this  \Vest — 
but  yet  we  declare  that  it's  rotten!  And  if  only  we 
had  a  genuine  contempt  for  it,"  pursued  Potugin, 
"but  that's  really  all  cant  and  humbug.  We  can  do 
well  enough  as  far  as  abuse  goes,  but  the  opinion  of 
the  West  is  the  only  thing  we  value,  the  opinion, 
that's  to  say,  of  the  Parisian  loafers.  ...  I  know  a 
man — a  good  fellow,  I  fancy — the  father  of  a  family, 
and  no  longer  young;  he  was  thrown  into  deep  de- 
jection for  some  days  because  in  a  Parisian  restaurant 
he  had  asked  for  une  portion  de  biftek  aux  pommes  de 
terre,  and  a  real  Frenchman  thereupon  shouted: 
Garqonl  biftek  pommes!  My  friend  was  ready  to  die 
with  shame,  and  after  that  he  shouted  everywhere, 
Biftek  pommes!  and  taught  others  to  do  the  same. 
The  very  cocottes  are  surprised  at  the  reverential 
trepidation  with  which  our  young  barbarians  enter 


SMOKE  33 

their  shameful  drawing-rooms.  'Good  God!'  they  are 
thinking,  'is  this  really  where  I  am,  with  no  less  a 
person  than  Anna  Deslions  herself!'  " 

"Tell  me,  pray,"  continued  Litvinov,  "to  what  do 
you  ascribe  the  influence  Gubaryov  undoubtedly  has 
over  all  about  him?  Is  it  his  talent,  his  abilities?" 

"No,  no;  there  is  nothing  of  that  sort  about 
him.  .  .  ." 

"His  personal  character  is  it,  then?" 

"Not  that  either,  but  he  has  a  strong  will.  We 
Slavs,  for  the  most  part,  as  we  all  know,  are  badly 
off  for  that  commodity,  and  we  grovel  before  it.  It 
is  Mr.  Gubaryov's  will  to  be  a  ruler,  and  every  one  has 
recognized  him  as  a  ruler.  What  would  you  have? 
The  government  has  freed  us  from  the  dependence  of 
serfdom — and  many  thanks  to  it!  but  the  habits  of 
slavery  are  too  deeply  ingrained  in  us;  we  cannot 
easily  be  rid  of  them.  We  want  a  master  in  every- 
thing and  everywhere;  as  a  rule  this  master  is  a 
living  person,  sometimes  it  is  some  so-called  tendency 
which  gains  authority  over  us.  ...  At  present,  for 
instance,  we  are  all  the  bondslaves  of  natural  science. 
.  .  .  Why,  owing  to  what  causes,  we  take  this  bond- 
age upon  us,  that  is  a  matter  difficult  to  see  into ;  but 
such  seemingly  is  our  nature.  But  the  great  thing 
is,  that  we  should  have  a  master.  Well,  here  he  is 
amongst  us ;  that  means  he  is  ours,  and  we  can  afford 
to  despise  everything  else !  Simply  slaves !  And  our 
pride  is  slavish,  and  slavish,  too,  is  our  humility.  If  a 
new  master  arises — it's  all  over  with  the  old  one. 
Then  it  was  Yakov,  and  now  it  is  Sidor;  we  box 
Yakov's  ears  and  kneel  to  Sidor!  Call  to  mind  how 
many  tricks  of  that  sort  have  been  played  amongst  us ! 
We  talk  of  skepticism  as  our  special  characteristic ; 
but  even  in  our  skepticism  we  are  not  like  a  free  man 


34  SMOKE 

fighting  with  a  sword,  but  like  a  lackey  hitting  out 
with  his  fist,  and  very  likely  he  is  doing  even  that  at 
his  master's  bidding.  Then,  we  are  a  soft  people,  too; 
it's  not  difficult  to  keep  the  curb  on  us.  So  that's  the 
way  Mr.  Gubaryov  has  become  a  power  among  us ;  he 
has  chipped  and  chipped  away  at  one  point,  till  he  has 
chipped  himself  into  success.  People  see  that  he  is  a 
man  who  has  a  great  opinion  of  himself,  who  believes 
in  himself,  and  commands.  That's  the  great  thing, 
that  he  can  command;  it  follows  that  he  must  be 
right,  and  we  ought  to  obey  him.  All  our  sects,  our 
Onuphrists  and  Akulinists,  were  founded  exactly  in 
that  way.  He  who  holds  the  rod  is  the  corporal." 

Potugin's  cheeks  were  flushed  and  his  eyes  grew 
dim;  but,  strange  to  say,  his  speech,  cruel  and  even 
malicious  as  it  was,  had  no  touch  of  bitterness,  but 
rather  of  sorrow,  genuine  and  sincere  sorrow. 

"How  did  you  come  to  know  Gubaryov?"  asked 
Litvinov. 

"I  have  known  him  a  long  while.  And  observe, 
another  peculiarity  among  us ;  a  certain  writer,  for 
example,  spent  his  whole  life  in  inveighing  in  prose 
and  verse  against  drunkenness,  and  attacking  the  sys- 
tem of  the  drink  monopoly,  and  lo  and  behold !  he 
went  and  bought  two  spirit  distilleries  and  opened  a 
hundred  drink-shops — and  it  made  no  difference !  Any 
other  man  might  have  been  wiped  off  the  face  of  the 
earth,  but  he  was  not  even  reproached  for  it.  And 
here  is  Mr.  Gubaryov ;  he  is  a  Slavophil  and  a  demo- 
crat and  a  socialist  and  anything  you  like,  but  his  prop- 
erty has  been  and  is  still  managed  by  his  brother,  a 
master  of  the  old  style,  one  of  those  who  were  famous 
for  their  fists.  And  the  very  Madame  Suhantchikov, 
who  makes  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe  box  Tentelyev's  ears, 
is  positively  in  the  dust  before  Gubaryov's  feet.  And 


SMOKE  35 

you  know  the  only  thing  he  has  to  back  him  is  that  he 
reads  clever  books,  and  always  gets  at  the  pith  of 
them.  You  could  see  for  yourself  to-day  what  sort  of 
gift  he  has  for  expression ;  and  thank  God,  too,  that  he 
does  talk  little,  and  keeps  in  his  shell.  For  when  he  is 
in  good  spirits,  and  lets  himself  go,  then  it's  more  than 
even  I,  patient  as  I  am,  can  stand.  He  begins  by  coarse 
joking  and  telling  filthy  anecdotes  .  .  .  yes,  really, 
our  majestic  Mr.  Gubaryov  tells  filthy  anecdotes,  and 
guffaws  so  revoltingly  over  them  all  the  time." 

"Are  you  so  patient  ?"  observed  Litvinov.  "I  should 
have  supposed  the  contrary.  But  let  me  ask  your  name 
and  your  father's  name?" 

Potugin  sipped  a  little  kirsch-wasser. 

"My  name  is  Sozont.  .  .  .  Sozont  Ivanitch.  They 
gave  me  that  magnificent  name  in  honor  of  a  kins- 
man, an  archimandrite,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for 
nothing  else.  I  am,  if  I  may  venture  so  to  express 
myself,  of  most  reverend  stock.  And  as  for  your 
doubts  about  my  patience,  they  are  quite  groundless : 
I  am  very  patient.  I  served  for  twenty-two  years 
under  the  authority  of  my  own  uncle,  an  actual  coun- 
cilor of  state,  Irinarh  Potugin.  You  don't  know  him  ?" 

"No." 

"I  congratulate  you.  No,  I  am  patient.  'But  let 
us  return  to  our  first  head,'  as  my  esteemed  colleague, 
who  was  burned  alive  some  centuries  ago,  the  proto- 
pope  Avvakum,  used  to  say.  I  am  amazed,  my  dear 
sir,  at  my  fellow-countrymen.  They  are  all  depressed, 
they  all  walk  with  downcast  heads,  and  at  the  same 
time  they  are  all  filled  with  hope,  and  on  the  smallest 
excuse  they  lose  their  heads  and  fly  off  into  ecstasies. 
Lock  at  the  Slavophils  even,  among  whom  Mr.  Gubar- 
-£oy  reckons  himself:  they  are  most  excellent  people, 
but  there  is  the  same  mixture  of  despair  and  exulta- 


36  SMOKE 

tion,  they,  too,  live  in  the  future  tense.  Everything 
will  be,  will  be,  if  you  please.  In  reality,  there  is 
nothing  done,  and  Russia  for  ten  whole  centuries  has 
created  nothing  of  its  own,  either  in  government,  in 
law,  in  science,  in  art,  or  even  in  handicraft.  .  .  . 
But  wait  a  little,  have  patience ;  it  is  all  coming.  And 
why  is  it  coming;  give  us  leave  to  inquire?  Why, 
because  we,  to  be  sure,  the  cultured  classes  are  all 
worthless;  but  the  people  .  .  .  Oh,  the  great  people! 
You  see  that  peasant's  smock?  That  is  the  source 
that  everything  is  to  come  from.  All  the  other  idols 
have  broken  down ;  let  us  have  faith  in  the  smock- 
frock.  Well,  but  suppose  the  smock-frock  fails  us? 
No,  it  will  not  fail.  Read  Kohanovsky,  and  cast  your 
eyes  up  to  heaven !  Really,  if  I  were  a  painter,  I  would 
paint  a  picture  of  this  sort :  a  cultivated  man  standing 
before  a  peasant,  doing  him  homage:  heal  me,  dear 
master-peasant,  I  am  perishing  of  disease;  and  a 
peasant  doing  homage  in  his  turn  to  the  cultivated 
man :  teach  me,  dear  master-gentleman,  I  am  perish- 
ing from  ignorance.  Well,  and  of  course,  both  are 
standing  still.  But  what  we  ought  to  do  is  to  feel 
really  humble  for  a  little — not  only  in  words — and 
to  borrow  from  our  elder  brothers  what  they  have 
invented  already  before  us  and  better  than  us !  Wait- 
er, noch  ein  Gldschen  Kirsch!  You  mustn't  think  I'm 
a  drunkard,  but  alcohol  loosens  my  tongue." 

"After  what  you  have  just  said,"  observed  Litvinov 
with  a  smile,  "I  need  not  even  inquire  to  which  party 
you  belong,  and  what  is  your  opinion  about  Europe. 
But  let  me  make  one  observation  to  you.  You  say 
that  we  ought  to  borrow  from  our  elder  brothers :  but 
how  can  we  borrow  without  consideration  of  the 
conditions  of  climate  and  of  soil,  the  local  and  na- 
tional peculiarities?  My  father,  I  recollect,  ordered 


SMOKE  37 

from  Butenop  a  cast-iron  thrashing  machine  highly 
recommended ;  the  machine  was  very  good,  certainly — 
but  what  happened?  For  five  long  years  it  remained 
useless  in  the  barn,  till  it  was  replaced  by  a  wooden 
American  one — far  more  suitable  to  our  ways  and 
habits,  as  the  American  machines  are  as  a  rule.  One 
cannot  borrow  at  random,  Sozont  Ivanitch." 

Potugin  lifted  his  head. 

"I  did  not  expect  such  a  criticism  as  that  from  you, 
excellent  Grigory  Mihalovitch,"  he  began,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause.  "Who  wants  to  make  you  borrow  at 
random?  Of  course  you  steal  what  belongs  to  another 
man,  not  because  it  is  some  one  else's,  but  because  it 
suits  you ;  so  it  follows  that  you  consider,  you  make 
a  selection.  And  as  for  results,  pray  don't  let  us  be 
unjust  to  ourselves ;  there  will  be  originality  enough 
in  them  by  virtue  of  those  very  local,  climatic,  and 
other  conditions  which  you  mention.  Only  lay  good 
food  before  it,  and  the  natural  stomach  will  digest  it  in 
its  own  way;  and  in  time,  as  the  organism  gains  in 
vigor,  it  will  give  it  a  sauce  of  its  own.  Take  our 
language  even  as  an  instance.  Peter  the  Great  deluged 
it  with  thousands  of  foreign  words,  Dutch,  French, 
and  German;  those  words  expressed  ideas  with  which 
the  Russian  people  had  to  be  familiarized;  without 
scruple  or  ceremony  Peter  poured  them  wholesale  by 
bucketsful  into  us.  At  first,  of  course,  the  result  was 
something  of  a  monstrous  product ;  but  later  there  be- 
gan precisely  that  process  of  digestion  to  which  I  have 
alluded.  The  ideas  had  been  introduced  and  assimi- 
lated; the  foreign  forms  evaporated  gradually,  and 
the  language  found  substitutes  for  them  from  within 
itself;  and  now  your  humble  servant,  the  most 
mediocre  stylist,  will  undertake  to  translate  any  page 
you  like  out  of  Hegel — yes,  indeed,  out  of  Hegel — 


38  SMOKE 

without  making  use  of  a  single  word  not  Slavonic. 
What  has  happened  with  the  language,  one  must  hope 
will  happen  in  other  departments.  It  all  turns  on  the 
question:  is  it  a  nature  of  strong  vitality?  and  our 
nature — well,  it  will  stand  the  test ;  it  has  gone  through 
greater  trials  than  that.  Only  nations  in  a  state  of 
nervous  debility,  feeble  nations,  need  fear  for  their 
health  and  their  independence,  just  as  it  is  only  weak- 
minded  people  who  are  capable  of  falling  into  triumph- 
ant rhapsodies  over  the  fact  that  we  are  Russians.  I 
am  very  careful  over  my  health,  but  I  don't  go  into 
ecstasies  over  it :  I  should  be  ashamed." 

"That  is  all  very  true,  Sozont  Ivanitch,"  observed 
Litvinov  in  his  turn;  "but  why  inevitably  expose  our- 
selves to  such  tests?  You  say  yourself  that  at  first 
the  result  was  monstrous !  Well,  what  if  that  mon- 
strous product  had  persisted  ?  Indeed  it  has  persisted, 
as  you  know  yourself." 

"Only  not  in  the  language — and  that  means  a  great 
deal!  And  it  is  our  people,  not  I,  who  have  done  it; 
I  am  not  to  blame  because  they  are  destined  to  go 
through  a  discipline  of  this  kind.  The  Germans 
have  developed  in  a  normal  way,'  cry  the  Slavophils, 
'let  us  too  have  a  normal  development !'  But  how  are 
you  to  get  it  when  the  very  first  historical  step  taken 
by  our  race — the  summoning  of  a  prince  from  over 
the  sea  to  rule  over  them — is  an  irregularity,  an 
abnormality,  which  is  repeated  in  every  one  of  us 
down  to  the  present  day?  Each  of  us,  at  least  once  in 
his  life,  has  certainly  said  to  something  foreign,  not 
Russian :  'Come,  rule  and  reign  over  me !'  I  am 
ready,  of  course,  to  agree  that  when  we  put  a  foreign 
substance  into  our  own  body  we  cannot  tell  for  cer- 
tain what  it  is  we  are  putting  there,  bread  or  poison ; 
yet  it  is  a  well-known  thing  that  you  can  never  get 


SMOKE  39 

from  bad  to  good  through  what  is  better,  but  always 
through  a  worse  state  of  transition,  and  poison,  too,  is 
useful  in  medicine.  It  is  only  fit  for  fools  or  knaves 
to  point  with  triumph  to  the  poverty  of  the  peasants 
after  the  emancipation,  and  the  increase  of  drunken- 
ness since  the  abolition  of  the  farming  of  the  spirit- 
tax.  .  .  .  Through  worse  to  better!" 

Potugin  passed  his  hand  over  his  face.  "You  asked 
me  what  was  my  opinion  of  Europe,"  he  began  again : 
"I  admire  her,  and  am  devoted  to  her  principles  to  the 
last  degree,  and  don't  in  the  least  think  it  necessary  to 
conceal  the  fact.  I  have  long — no,  not  long — for  some 
time  ceased  to  be  afraid  to  give  full  expression  to  my 
convictions — and  I  saw  that  you,  too,  had  no  hesitation 
in  informing  Mr.  Gubaryov  of  your  own  way  of 
thinking.  Thank  God  I  have  given  up  paying  atten- 
tion to  the  ideas  and  points  of  view  and  habits  of  the 
man  I  am  conversing  with.  Really,  I  know  of  nothing 
worse  than  that  quite  superfluous  cowardice,  that 
cringing  desire  to  be  agreeable,  by  virtue  of  which 
you  may  see  an  important  dignitary  among  us  trying 
to  ingratiate  himself  with  some  little  student  who  is 
quite  insignificant  in  his  eyes,  positively  playing  down 
to  him,  with  all  sorts  of  tricks  and  devices.  Even  if 
we  admit  that  the  dignitary  may  do  it  out  of  desire  for 
popularity,  what  induces  us  common  folk  to  shuffle 
and  degrade  ourselves.  Yes,  yes,  I  am  a  Westerner, 
I  am  devoted  to  Europe :  that's  to  say,  speaking  more 
accurately,  I  am  devoted  to  culture — the  culture  at 
which  they  make  fun  so  wittily  among  us  just  now — 
and  to  civilization — yes,  yes,  that  is  a  better  word — 
and  I  love  it  with  my  whole  heart  and  believe  in  it, 
and  I  have  no  other  belief,  and  never  shall  have.  That 
word,  ci-vi-li-za-tion  (Potugin  pronounced  each  syl- 
lable with  full  stress  and  emphasis),  is  intelligible,  and 


40  SMOKE 

pure,  and  holy,  and  all  the  other  ideals,  nationality, 
glory,  or  what  you  like— they  smell  of  blood.  .  .  . 
Away  with  them !" 

"Well,  but  Russia,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  your  country — 
you  love  it?" 

Potugm  passed  his  hand  over  his  face.  "I  love  her 
passionately  and  passionately  hate  her." 

Litvinov  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"That's  stale,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  that's  a  common- 
place." 

"And  what  of  it?  So  that's  what  you're  afraid  of! 
A  commonplace!  I  know  many  excellent  common- 
places. Here,  for  example,  Law  and  Liberty  is  a  well- 
known  commonplace.  Why,  do  you  consider  it's  bet- 
ter as  it  is  with  us,  lawlessness  and  bureaucratic  tyr- 
anny? And,  besides,  all  those  phrases  by  which  so 
many  young  heads  are  turned :  vile  bourgeoisie,  sou- 
verainete  du  peuple,  right  to  labor,  aren't  they  com- 
monplaces too?  And  as  for  love,  inseparable  from 
hate.  ..." 

"Byronism,"  interposed  Litvinov,  "the  romanticism 
of  the  thirties." 

"Excuse  me,  you're  mistaken;  such  a  mingling  of 
emotions  was  first  mentioned  by  Catullus,  the  Roman 
poet  Catullus,1  two  thousand  years  ago.  I  have  read 
that,  for  I  know  a  little  Latin,  thanks  to  my  clerical 
origin,  if  so  I  may  venture  to  express  myself.  Yes, 
indeed,  I  both  love  and  hate  my  Russia,  my  strange, 
sweet,  nasty,  precious  country.  I  have  left  her  just 
now.  I  want  a  little  fresh  air  after  sitting  for  twenty 
years  on  a  clerk's  high  stool  in  a  government  office ; 
I  have  left  Russia,  and  I  am  happy  and  contented  here ; 
but  I  shall  soon  go  back  again  :  I  feel  that.  It's  a  beau- 

1  Odi  et  amo.  Quare  id  faciam,  f  ortasce  requiris. 
Nescio:  sed  fieri  sentio,  et  excrucior. — CATULL.  Ixxxvi. 


SMOKE  41 

tiful  land  of  gardens — but  our  wild  berries  will  not 
grow  here." 

"You  are  happy  and  contented,  and  I,  too,  like  the 
place,"  said  Litvinov,  "and  I  came  here  to  study;  but 
that  does  not  prevent  me  from  seeing  things  like  that." 

He  pointed  to  two  cocottes  who  passed  by,  attended 
by  a  little  group  of  members  of  the  Jockey  Club,  grim- 
acing and  lisping,  and  to  the  gambling  saloon,  full  to 
overflowing  in  spite  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 

"And  who  told  you  I  am  blind  to  that?"  Potugin 
broke  in.  "But  pardon  my  saying  it,  your  remark  re- 
minds me  of  the  triumphant  allusions  made  by  our 
unhappy  journalists  at  the  time  of  the  Crimean  war, 
to  the  defects  in  the  English  War  Department,  ex- 
posed in  the  Times.  I  am  not  an  optimist  myself, 
and  all  humanity,  all  our  life,  all  this  comedy  with 
tragic  issues  presents  itself  to  me  in  no  roseate  colors : 
but  why  fasten  upon  the  West  what  is  perhaps  in- 
grained in  our  very  human  nature?  That  gambling 
hall  is  disgusting,  certainly;  but  is  our  home-bred 
card-sharping  any  lovelier,  think  you?  No,  my  dear 
Grigory  Mihalovitch,  let  us  be  more  humble,  more, 
retiring.  A  good  pupil  sees  his  master's  faults,  but 
he  keeps  a  respectful  silence  about  them;  these  very 
faults  are  of  use  to  him,  and  set  him  on  tHe  right  path. 
But  if  nothing  will  satisfy  you  but  sharpening  your 
teeth  on  the  unlucky  West,  there  goes  Prince  Koko 
at  a  gallop,  he  will  most  likely  lose  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  over  the  green  table  the  hardly  earned  rent 
wrung  from  a  hundred  and  fifty  families;  his  nerves 
are  upset,  for  I  saw  him  at  Marx's  to-day  turning  over 
a  pamphlet  of  Vaillot.  ...  He  will  be  a  capital  per- 
son for  you  to  talk  to !" 

"But,  please,  please,"  said  Litvinov  hurriedly,  seeing 
.'hat  Potugin  was  getting  up  from  his  place,  "I  know 


42  SMOKE 

Prince  Koko  very  little,  and  besides,  of  course,  I  great- 
ly prefer  talking  to  you." 

"Thanks  very  much,"  Potugin  interrupted  him,  get- 
ting up  and  making  a  bow;  "but  I  have  already  had  a 
good  deal  of  conversation  with  you ;  that's  to  say, 
really,  I  have  talked  alone,  and  you  have  probably 
noticed  yourself  that  a  man  is  always  as  it  were 
ashamed  and  awkward  when  he  has  done  all  the  talk- 
ing, especially  so  on  a  first  meeting,  as  if  to  show  what 
a  fine  fellow  one  is.  Good-by  for  the  present.  And  I 
repeat  I  am  very  glad  to  have  made  your  acquaint- 
ance." 

"But  wait  a  minute,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  tell  me  at  least 
where  you  live,  and  whether  you  intend  to  remain 
here  long." 

Potugin  seemed  a  little  put  out. 

"I  shall  remain  about  a  week  in  Baden.  We  can 
meet  here  though,  at  Weber's  or  at  Marx's,  or  else  I 
will  come  to  you." 

"Still  I  must  know  your  address." 

"Yes.    But  you  see  I  am  not  alone." 

"You  are  married  ?"  asked  Litvinov  suddenly. 

"No,  good  heavens!  .  .  .  what  an  absurd  idea! 
But  I  have  a  girl  with  me.  .  .  ." 

"Oh!"  articulated  Litvinov,  with  a  face  of  studied 
politeness,  as  though  he  would  ask  pardon,  and  he 
dropped  his  eyes. 

"She  is  only  six  years  old,"  pursued  Potugin. 
"She's  an  orphan  ...  the  daughter  of  a  lady  ...  a 
good  friend  of  mine.  So  we  had  better  meet  here. 
Good-by." 

He  pulled  his  hat  over  his  curly  head,  and  disap- 
peared quickly.  Twice  there  was  a  glimpse  of  him  un- 
der the  gas-lamps  in  the  rather  meanly  lighted  road 
that  leads  into  the  Lichtenthaler  Allee. 


VI 

"A  STRANGE  man !"  thought  Litvinov,  as  he  turned 
into  the  hotel  where  he  was  staying;  "a  strange  man! 
I  must  see  more  of  him !"  He  went  into  his  room ;  a 
letter  on  the  table  caught  his  eye.  "Ah !  from  Tanya !" 
he  thought,  and  was  overjoyed  at  once;  but  the  letter 
was  from  his  country  place,  from  his  father.  Litvinov 
broke  the  thick  heraldic  seal,  and  was  just  setting  to 
work  to  read  it  ...  when  he  was  struck  by  a  strong, 
very  agreeable,  and  familiar  fragrance,  and  saw  in  the 
window  a  great  bunch  of  fresh  heliotrope  in  a  glass  of 
water.  Litvinov  bent  over  them  not  without  amaze- 
ment, touched  them,  and  smelt  them.  .  .  .  Something 
seemed  to  stir  in  his  memory,  something  very  re- 
mote .  .  .  but  what,  precisely,  he  could  not  discover. 
He  rang  for  the  servant  and  asked  him  where  these 
flowers  had  come  from.  The  man  replied  that  they 
had  been  brought  by  a  lady  who  would  not  give  her 
name,  but  said  that  "Herr  Zlitenhov"  would  be  sure 
to  guess  who  she  was  by  the  flowers.  Again  some- 
thing stirred  in  Litvinov's  memory.  He  asked  the 
man  what  the  lady  looked  like,  and  the  servant  in- 
formed him  that  she  was  tall  and  grandly  dressed 
and  had  a  veil  over  her  face.  "A  Russian  countess 
most  likely,"  he  added. 

"What  makes  you  think  that?"  asked  Litvinov. 

"She  gave  me  two  guldens,"  responded  the  servant 
with  a  grin. 

Litvinov  dismissed  him,  and  for  a  long  while  after 
he  stood  in  deep  thought  before  the  window;  at  last, 

43 


44  SMOKE 

however,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  he  began  again  upon 
the  letter  from  the  country.  His  father  poured  out  to 
him  his  usual  complaints,  asserting  that  no  one  would 
take  their  corn,  even  for  nothing,  that  the  people  had 
got  quite  out  of  all  habits  of  obedience,  and  that  prob- 
ably the  end  of  the  world  was  coming  soon.  "Fancy," 
he  wrote,  among  other  things,  "my  last  coachman,  the 
Kalmuck  boy,  do  you  remember  him?  has  been  be- 
witched, and  the  fellow  would  certainly  have  died,  and 
I  should  have  had  none  to  drive  me,  but,  thank  good- 
ness, some  kind  folks  suggested  and  advised  to  send 
the  sick  man  to  Ryazan,  to  a  priest,  well-known  as  a 
master  against  witchcraft:  and  his  cure  has  actually 
succeeded  as  well  as  possible,  in  confirmation  of  which 
I  lay  before  you  the  letter  of  the  good  father  as  a 
document."  Litvinov  ran  through  this  document  with 
curiosity.  In  it  was  set  forth :  "that  the  serving-man 
Nicanor  Dmitriev  was  beset  with  a  malady  which  could 
not  be  touched  by  the  medical  faculty ;  and  this  malady 
was  the  work  of  wicked  people ;  but  he  himself,  Nic- 
anor, was  the  cause  of  it,  since  he  had  not  fulfilled  his 
promise  to  a  certain  girl,  and  therefore  by  the  aid  of 
others  she  had  made  him  unfit  for  anything,  and  if  I 
had  not  appeared  to  aid  him  in  these  circumstances,  he 
would  surely  have  perished  utterly,  like  a  worm ;  but 
I,  trusting  in  the  All-seeing  Eye,  have  become  a  stay 
to  him  in  his  life;  and  how  I  accomplished  it,  that  is  a 
mystery;  I  beg  your  excellency  not  to  countenance  a 
girl  who  has  such  wicked  arts,  and  even  to  chide  her 
would  be  no  harm,  or  she  may  again  work  him  a  mis- 
chief." 

Litvinov  fell  to  musing  over  this  document;  it 
brought  him  a  whiff  of  the  desert,  of  the  steppes,  of 
the  blind  darkness  of  the  life  moldering  there,  and  it 
seemed  a  marvelous  thing  that  he  should  be  reading 


SMOKE  45 

such  a  letter  in  Baden,  of  all  places.  Meanwhile  it  had 
long  struck  midnight ;  Litvinov  went  to  bed  and  put  out 
his  light.  But  he  could  not  get  to  sleep ;  the  faces  he 
had  seen,  the  talk  he  had  heard,  kept  coming  back  and 
revolving,  strangely  interwoven  and  entangled  in  his 
burning  head,  which  ached  from  the  fumes  of  tobacco. 
Now  he  seemed  to  hear  Gubaryov's  muttering,  and 
fancied  his  eyes  with  their  dull,  persistent  stare  fas- 
tened on  the  floor;  then  suddenly  those  eyes  began  to 
glow  and  leap,  and  he  recognized  Madame  Suhantchi- 
kov,  and  listened  to  her  shrill  voice,  and  involuntarily 
repeated  after  her  in  a  whisper,  "she  did,  she  did, 
slap  his  face."  Then  the  clumsy  figure  of  Potugin 
passed  before  him ;  and  for  the  tenth,  and  the  twen- 
tieth time  he  went  over  every  word  he  had  uttered; 
then,  like  a  jack  in  the  box,  Voroshilov  jumped  up  in 
his  trim  coat,  which  fitted  him  like  a  new  uniform; 
and  Pishtchalkin  gravely  and  sagaciously  nodded  his 
well-cut  and  truly  well-intentioned  head;  and  then 
Bindasov  bawled  and  swore,  and  Bambaev  fell  into 
tearful  transports.  .  .  .  And  above  all — this  scent, 
this  persistent,  sweet,  heavy  scent  gave  him  no  rest, 
and  grew  more  and  more  powerful  in  the  darkness, 
and  more  and  more  importunately  it  reminded  him  of 
something  which  still  eluded  his  grasp.  .  .  .  The  idea 
occurred  to  Litvinov  that  the  scent  of  flowers  at  night 
in  a  bedroom  was  injurious,  and  he  got  up,  and  groping 
his  way  to  the  nosegay,  carried  it  into  the  next  room ; 
but  even  from  there  the  oppressive  fragrance  pene- 
trated to  him  on  his  pillow  and  under  the  counterpane, 
and  he  tossed  in  misery  from  side  to  side.  A  slight 
delirium  had  already  begun  to  creep  over  him;  already 
the  priest,  "the  master  against  witchcraft"  had  twice 
run  across  his  road  in  the  guise  of  a  very  playful  hare 
with  a  beard  and  a  pig-tail,  and  Voroshilov  was  trill- 


46  SMOKE 

ing  before  him,  sitting  in  a  huge  general's  plumed 
cock-hat  like  a  nightingale  in  a  bush.  .  .  .  When  sud- 
denly he  jumped  up  in  bed,  and  clasping  his  hands, 
cried,  "Can  it  be  she  ?  it  can't  be !" 

But  to  explain  this  exclamation  of  Litvinov's  we 
must  beg  the  indulgent  reader  to  go  back  a  few  years 
with  us. 


VII 

EARLY  in  the  fifties,  there  was  living  in  Moscow,  in 
very  straitened  circumstances,  almost  in  poverty,  the 
numerous  family  of  the  Princes  Osinin.  These  were 
real  princes — not  Tartar-Georgians,  but  pure-blooded 
descendants  of  Rurik.  Their  name  is  often  to  be  met 
with  in  our  chronicles  under  the  first  grand  princes 
of  Moscow,  who  created  a  united  Russia.  They  pos- 
sessed wide  acres  and  many  dominions.  Many  a  time 
they  were  rewarded  for  "service  and  blood  and  dis- 
ablement." They  sat  in  the  Council  of  Boyars.  One 
of  them  even  rose  to  a  very  high  position.  But  they 
fell  under  the  ban  of  the  Empire  through  the  plots  of 
enemies  "on  a  charge  of  witchcraft  and  evil  philtres," 
and  they  were  ruined  "terribly  and  beyond  recall." 
They  were  deprived  of  their  rank,  and  banished  to  re- 
mote parts ;  the  Osinins  fell  and  had  never  risen  again, 
had  never  attained  to  power  again.  The  ban  was  taken 
off  in  time,  and  they  were  even  reinstated  in  their  Mos- 
cow house  and  belongings,  but  it  was  of  no  avail. 
Their  family  was  impoverished,  "run  to  seed" ;  it  did 
not  revive  under  Peter,  nor  under  Catherine ;  and  con- 
stantly dwindling  and  growing  humbler,  it  had  by  now 
reckoned  private  stewards,  managers  of  wine-shops, 
and  ward  police-inspectors  among  its  members.  The 
family  of  Osinins,  of  whom  we  have  made  mention, 
consisted  of  a  husband  and  wife  and  five  children.  It 
was  living  near  the  Dogs'  Place,  in  a  one-storied  little 
wooden  house,  with  a  striped  portico  looking  on  to  the 
street,  green  lions  on  the  gates,  and  all  the  other  pre- 
47 


48  SMOKE 

tensions  of  nobility,  though  it  could  hardly  make  both 
ends  meet,  was  constantly  in  debt  at  the  green-grocer's, 
and  often  sitting  without  firewood  or  candles  in  the 
winter.  The  prince  himself  was  a  dull,  indolent  man, 
who  had  once  been  a  handsome  dandy,  but  had  gone 
to  seed  completely.  More  from  regard  for  his  wife, 
who  had  been  a  maid-of-honor,  than  from  respect  for 
his  name,  he  had  been  presented  with  one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  Moscow  posts  that  have  a  small  salary,  a 
queer-sounding  name,  and  absolutely  no  duties  at- 
tached. He  never  meddled  in  anything,  and  did  noth- 
ing but  smoke  from  morning  till  night,  breathing  heav- 
ily, and  always  wrapped  in  a  dressing-gown.  His  wife 
was  a  sickly  irritable  woman,  for  ever  worried  over 
domestic  trifles — over  getting  her  children  placed  in 
government  schools,  and  keeping  up  her  Petersburg 
connections;  she  could  never  accustom  herself  to  her 
position  and  her  remoteness  from  the  Court. 

Litvinov's  father  had  made  acquaintance  with  the 
Osinins  during  his  residence  at  Moscow,  had  had  oc- 
casion to  do  them  some  services,  and  had  once  lent 
them  three  hundred  rubles ;  and  his  son  often  visited 
them  while  he  was  a  student;  his  lodging  happened 
to  be  at  no  great  distance  from  their  house.  But  he 
was  not  drawn  to  them  simply  as  near  neighbors,  nor 
tempted  by  their  comfortless  way  of  living.  He  be- 
gan to  be  a  frequent  visitor  at  their  house  after  he 
had  fallen  in  love  with  their  eldest  daughter  Irina. 

She  had  then  completed  her  seventeenth  year;  she 
had  only  just  left  school,  from  which  her  mother 
withdrew  her  through  a  disagreement  with  the  prin- 
cipal. This  disagreement  arose  from  the  fact  that 
Irina  was  to  have  delivered  at  a  public  function  some 
verses  in  French,  complimentary  to  the  curator,  and 
just  before  the  performance  her  place  was  filled  by 


SMOKE  49 

another  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  very  rich  spirit-con- 
tractor. The  princess  could  not  stomach  this  affront ; 
and  indeed  Irina  herself  never  forgave  the  principal 
for  this  act  of  injustice;  she  had  been  dreaming  be- 
forehand of  how  she  would  rise  before  the  eyes  of 
every  one,  attracting  universal  attention,  and  would 
deliver  her  speech,  and  how  Moscow  would  talk  about 
her  afterwards!  .  .  .  And,  indeed,  Moscow  would 
have  talked  about  her  afterwards.  She  was  a  tall, 
slim  girl,  with  a  somewhat  hollow  chest  and  narrow 
unformed  shoulders,  with  a  skin  of  a  dead-white,  rare 
at  her  age,  and  pure  and  smooth  as  china,  with  thick 
fair  hair;  there  were  darker  tresses  mingled  in  a  very 
original  way  with  the  light  ones.  Her  features — ex- 
quisitely, almost  too  perfectly,  correct — had  not  yet 
quite  lost  the  innocent  expression  that  belongs  to 
childhood;  the  languid  curves  of  her  lovely  neck,  and 
her  smile — half-indifferent,  half-weary — betrayed  the 
nervous  temperment  of  a  delicate  girl ;  but  in  the  lines 
of  those  fine,  faintly-smiling  lips,  of  that  small,  falcon, 
slightly-narrow  nose,  there  was  something  wilful  and 
passionate,  something  dangerous  for  herself  and  oth- 
ers. Astounding,  really  astounding  were  her  eyes, 
dark  gray  with  greenish  lights,  languishing,  almond- 
shaped  as  an  Egyptian  goddess's,  with  shining  lashes 
and  bold  sweep  of  eyebrow.  There  was  a  strange  look 
in  those  eyes;  they  seemed  looking  out  intently  and 
thoughtfully — looking  out  from  some  unknown  depth 
and  distance.  At  school,  Irina  had  been  reputed  one  of 
the  best  pupils  for  intelligence  and  abilities,  but  of  un- 
even temper,  fond  of  power,  and  headstrong ;  one  class- 
mistress  prophesied  that  her  passions  would  be  her 
ruin — "vos  passions  vous  perdront" ;  on  the  other 
hand,  another  class-mistress  censured  her  for  coldness 
and  want  of  feeling,  and  called  her  "une  jeune  fitte 


go  SMOKE 

sans  cceur."  Irina's  companions  thought  her  proud 
and  reserved :  her  brothers  and  sisters  stood  a  little  in 
awe  of  her :  her  mother  had  no  confidence  in  her :  and 
her  father  felt  ill  at  ease  when  she  fastened  her  mys- 
terious eyes  upon  him.  But  she  inspired  a  feeling  of 
involuntary  respect  in  both  her  father  and  her  mother, 
not  so  much  through  her  qualities,  as  from  a  peculiar, 
vague  sense  of  expectations  which  she  had,  in  some  un- 
defined way,  awakened  in  them. 

"You  will  see,  Praskovya  Danilovna,"  said  the  old 
prince  one  day,  taking  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  "our 
chit  of  an  Irina  will  give  us  all  a  lift  in  the  world  yet." 

The  princess  got  angry,  and  told  her  husband  that 
he  made  use  of  "des  expressions  insupportables" ;  after- 
wards, however,  she  fell  to  musing  over  his  words,  and 
repeated  through  her  teeth  : 

"Well  .  .  .  and  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  we  did 
get  a  lift." 

Irina  enjoyed  almost  unlimited  freedom  in  her  par- 
ents' house;  they  did  not  spoil  her,  they  even  avoided 
her  a  little,  but  they  did  not  thwart  her,  and  that  was 
all  she  wanted.  .  .  .  Sometimes — during  some  too  hu- 
miliating scene — when  some  tradesman  would  come 
and  keep  shouting,  to  be  heard  over  the  whole  court, 
that  he  was  sick  of  coming  after  his  money,  or  their 
own  servants  would  begin  abusing  their  masters  to 
their  face,  with  "fine  princes  you  are,  to  be  sure;  you 
may  whistle  for  your  supper,  and  go  hungry  to  bed" — 
Irina  would  not  stir  a  muscle;  she  would  sit  unmoved, 
an  evil  smile  on  her  dark  face;  and  her  smile  alone 
was  more  bitter  to  her  parents  than  any  reproaches, 
and  they  felt  themselves  guilty — guilty,  though  guilt- 
less— towards  this  being  on  whom  had  been  bestowed, 
as  it  seemed,  from  her  very  birth,  the  right  to  wealth, 
to  luxury,  and  to  homage. 


SMOKE  51 

Litvinov  fell  in  love  with  Irina  from  the  moment 
he  saw  her  (he  was  only  three  years  older  than  she 
was ) ,  but  for  a  long  while  he  failed  to  obtain  not  only 
a  response,  but  even  a  hearing.  Her  manner  to  him 
was  even  overcast  with  a  shade  of  something  like  hos- 
tility; he  did  in  fact  wound  her  pride,  and  she  con- 
cealed the  wound,  and  could  never  forgive  it.  He 
was  too  young  and  too  modest  at  that  time  to  under- 
stand what  might  be  concealed  under  this  hostile,  al- 
most contemptuous  severity.  Often,  forgetful  of  lec- 
tures and  exercises,  he  would  sit  and  sit  in  the  Osinins' 
cheerless  drawing-room,  stealthily  watching  Irina,  his 
heart  slowly  and  painfully  throbbing  and  suffocating 
him ;  and  she  would  seem  angry  or  bored,  would  get 
up  and  walk  about  the  room,  look  coldly  at  him  as 
though  he  were  a  table  or  chair,  shrug  her  shoulders, 
and  fold  her  arms.  Or  for  a  whole  evening,  even  when 
talking  with  Litvinov,  she  would  purposely  avoid  look- 
ing at  him,  as  though  denying  him  even  that  grace. 
Or  she  would  at  last  take  up  a  book  and  stare  at  it,  not 
reading,  but  frowning  and  biting  her  lips.  Or  else 
she  would  suddenly  ask  her  father  or  brother  aloud : 
"What's  the  German  for  patience?"  He  tried  to  tear 
himself  away  from  the  enchanted  circle  in  which  he 
suffered  and  struggled  impotently  like  a  bird  in  a  trap ; 
he  went  away  from  Moscow  for  a  week.  He  nearly 
went  out  of  his  mind  with  misery  and  dulness;  he 
returned  quite  thin  and  ill  to  the  Osinins'.  .  .  . 
Strange  to  say,  Irina,  too,  had  grown  perceptibly  thin- 
ner during  those  days;  her  face  had  grown  pale,  her 
cheeks  were  wan.  .  .  .  But  she  met  him  with  still 
greater  coldness,  with  almost  malignant  indifference; 
as  though  he  had  intensified  that  secret  wound 
he  had  dealt  at  her  pride.  .  .  .  She  tortured  him 
in  this  way  for  two  months.  Then  everything 


52  SMOKE 

was  transformed  in  one  day.  It  was  as  though  love 
had  broken  into  flame  with  the  heat,  or  had  dropped 
down  from  a  storm-cloud.  One  day — long  will  he  re- 
member that  day — he  was  once  more  sitting  in  the  Os- 
inins'  drawing-room  at  the  window,  and  was  looking 
mechanically  into  the  street.  There  was  vexation  and 
weariness  in  his  heart,  he  despised  himself,  and  yet  he 
could  not  move  from  his  place.  ...  He  thought  that 
if  a  river  ran  there  under  the  window,  he  would  throw 
himself  in,  with  a  shudder  of  fear,  but  without  a  re- 
gret. Irina  placed  herself  not  far  from  him,  and  was 
somehow  strangely  silent  and  motionless.  For  some 
days  now  she  had  not  talked  to  him  at  all,  or  to  any 
one  else;  she  kept  sitting,  leaning  on  her  elbows,  as 
though  she  were  in  perplexity,  and  only  rarely  she 
looked  slowly  round.  This  cold  torture  was  at  last 
more  than  Litvinov  could  bear ;  he  got  up,  an^  without 
saying  good-by,  he  began  to  look  for  his  hat  "Stay," 
sounded  suddenly,  in  a  soft  whisper.  Litvinov's  heart 
throbbed,  he  did  not  at  once  recognize  Irina' s  voice; 
in  that  one  word,  there  was  a  ring  of  something  that 
had  never  been  in  it  before.  He  lifted  his  head  and 
was  stupefied;  Irina  was  looking  fondly — yes,  fondly 
at  him.  "Stay,"  she  repeated;  "don't  go.  I  want  to 
be  with  you."  Her  voice  sank  still  lower.  "Don't 
go.  ...  I  wish  it."  Understanding  nothing,  not 
fully  conscious  what  he  was  doing,  he  drew  near  her, 
stretched  out  his  hands.  .  .  .  She  gave  him  both  of 
hers  at  once,  then  smiling,  flushing  hotly,  she  turned 
away,  and  still  smiling,  went  out  of  the  room.  She 
came  back  a  few  minutes  later  with  her  youngest  sis- 
ter, looked  at  him  again  with  the  same  prolonged  ten- 
der gaze,  and  made  him  sit  near  her.  ...  At  first  she 
could  say  nothing;  she  only  sighed  and  blushed;  then 
she  began,  timidly  as  it  were,  to  question  him  about 


j  SMOKE  53 

his  pursuits,  a  thing  she  had  never  done  before.  In 
the  evening  of  the  same  day,  she  tried  several  times 
to  beg  his  forgiveness  for  not  having  done  him  jus- 
tice before,  assured  him  she  had  now  become  quite  dif- 
ferent, astonished  him  by  a  sudden  outburst  of  re- 
publicanism (he  had  at  that  time  a  positive  hero-wor- 
ship for  Robespierre,  and  did  not  presume  to  criticize 
Marat  aloud),  and  only  a  week  later  he  knew  that  she 
loved  him.  Yes;  he  long  remembered  that  first  day 
.  .  .  but  he  did  not  forget  those  that  came  after,  either 
— those  days,  when  still  forcing  himself  to  doubt, 
afraid  to  believe  in  it,  he  saw  clearly,  with  transports 
of  rapture,  almost  of  dread,  bliss  unhoped  for  coming 
to  life,  growing,  irresistibly  carrying  everything  before 
it,  reaching  him  at  last.  Then  followed  the  radiant 
moments  of  first  love — moments  which  are  not  des- 
tined to  be,  and  could  not  fittingly  be,  repeated  in  the 
same  life.  Irina  became  all  at  once  as  docile  as  a  lamb, 
as  soft  as  silk,  and  boundlessly  kind;  she  began  giv- 
ing lessons  to  her  younger  sisters — not  on  the  piano, 
she  was  no  musician,  but  in  French  and  English;  she 
read  their  school-books  with  them,  and  looked  after 
the  housekeeping;  everything  was  amusing  and  inter- 
esting to  her ;  she  would  sometimes  chatter  incessantly, 
and  sometimes  sink  into  speechless  tenderness;  she 
made  all  sorts  of  plans,  and  was  lost  in  endless  antici- 
pations of  what  she  would  do  when  she  was  married 
to  Litvinov  (they  never  doubted  that  their  marriage 
would  come  to  pass),  and  how  together  they  would 
.  .  .  "Work  ?"  prompted  Litvinov.  .  .  .  "Yes ;  work," 
repeated  Irina,  "and  read  .  .  .  but  travel  before  all 
things."  She  particularly  wanted  to  lea\e  Moscow 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  when  Litvinov  reminded  her 
that  he  had  not  yet  finished  his  course  of  study  at  the 
university,  she  always  replied,  after  a  moment's 


54 


SMOKE 


thought,  that  it  was  quite  possible  to  finish  his  studies 
at  Berlin  or  ...  somewhere  or  other.  Irina  was  very 
little  reserved  in  the  expression  of  her  feelings,  and 
so  her  relations  with  Litvinov  did  not  long  remain  a 
secret  from  the  prince  and  princess.  Rejoice  they 
could  not;  but,  taking  all  circumstances  into  consider- 
ation, they  saw  no  necessity  for  putting  a  veto  on  it  at 
once.  Litvinov's  fortune  was  considerable.  .  .  . 

"But  his  family,  his  family!"  .  .  .  protested  the 
princess.  "Yes,  his  family,  of  course,"  replied  the 
prince;  "but  at  least  he's  not  quite  a  plebeian;  and, 
what's  the  principal  point,  Irina,  you  know,  will  not 
listen  to  us.  Has  there  ever  been  a  time  when  she  did 
not  do  what  she  chose  ?  Vous  connaissez  sa  violence ! 
Besides,  there  is  nothing  fixed  definitely  yet."  So  rea- 
soned the  prince,  but  mentally  he  added,  however : 
"Madame  Litvinov — is  that  all  ?  I  had  expected  some- 
thing else."  Irina  took  complete  possession  of  her  fu- 
ture fiance,  and  indeed  he  himself  eagerly  surrendered 
himself  into  her  hands.  It  was  as  if  he  had  fallen  into 
a  rapid  river,  and  had  lost  himself.  .  .  .  And  bit- 
ter and  sweet  it  was  to  him,  and  he  regretted  nothing 
and  heeded  nothing.  To  reflect  on  the  significance  and 
the  duties  of  marriage,  or  whether  he,  so  hopelessly 
enslaved,  could  be  a  good  husband,  and  what  sort  of 
wife  Irina  would  make,  and  whether  their  relations  to 
one  another  were  what  they  should  be — was  more  than 
he  could  bring  himself  to.  His  blood  was  on  fire,  he 
could  think  of  nothing,  only — to  follow  her,  be  with 
her,  for  the  future  without  end,  and  then — let  come 
what  may ! 

But  in  spite  of  the  complete  absence  of  opposition 
on  Litvinov's  side,  and  the  wealth  of  impulsive  tender- 
ness on  Irina's,  they  did  not  get  on  quite  without  any 
misunderstandings  and  quarrels.  One  day  he  ran  to 


SMOKE  55 

her  straight  from  the  university  in  an  old  coat  and 
ink-stained  hands.  She  rushed  to  meet  him  with  her 
accustomed  fond  welcome ;  suddenly  she  stopped  short. 

"You  have  no  gloves,"  she  said  abruptly,  and  added 
directly  after:  "Fie!  what  a  student  you  are!" 

"You  are  too  particular,  Irina,"  remarked  Litvinov. 

"You  are  a  regular  student,"  she  repeated.  "Vous 
rietes  pas  distingue" ;  and  turning  her  back  on  him 
she  went  out  of  the  room.  It  is  true  that  an  hour  later 
she  begged  him  to  forgive  her.  .  .  .  As  a  rule  she 
readily  censured  herself  and  accused  herself  to  him; 
but,  strange  to  say,  she  often  almost  with  tears  blamed 
herself  for  evil  propensities  which  she  had  not,  and 
obstinately  denied  her  real  defects.  Another  time  he 
found  her  in  tears,  her  head  in  her  hands,  and  her  hair 
in  disorder;  and  when,  all  in  agitation,  he  asked  her 
the  cause  of  her  grief,  she  pointed  with  her  finger  at 
her  own  bosom  without  speaking.  Litvinov  gave  an 
involuntary  shiver.  "Consumption!"  flashed  through 
his  brain,  and  he  seized  her  hand. 

"Are  you  ill,  Irina?"  he  articulated  in  a  shaking 
voice.  (They  had  already  begun  on  great  occasions 
to  call  each  other  by  their  first  names.)  "Let  me  go 
at  once  for  a  doctor." 

But  Irina  did  not  let  him  finish;  she  stamped  with 
her  foot  in  vexation. 

"I  am  perfectly  well  .  .  .  but  this  dress  .  .  .  don't 
you  understand?" 

"What  is  it?  ...  this  dress,"  he  repeated  in  be- 
wilderment. 

"What  is  it  ?  Why,  that  I  have  no  other,  and  that  it 
is  old  and  disgusting,  and  I  am  obliged  to  put  on  this 
dress  every  day  .  .  .  even  when  you — Grisha — 
Grigory,  come  here.  .  .  .  You  will  leave  off  loving 
me,  at  last,  seeing  me  so  slovenly !" 


56  SMOKE 

"For  goodness  sake,  Irina,  what  are  you  saying? 
That  dress  is  very  nice.  ...  It  is  dear  to  me,  too,  be- 
cause I  saw  you  for  the  first  time  in  it,  darling." 

Irina  blushed. 

"Do  not  remind  me,  if  you  please,  Grigory  Mihalo- 
vitch,  that  I  had  no  other  dress  even  then." 

"But  I  assure  you,  Irina  Pavlovna,  it  suits  you  so 
exquisitely." 

"No,  it  is  horrid,  horrid,"  she  persisted,  nervously 
pulling  at  her  long,  soft  curls.  "Ugh,  this  poverty, 
poverty  and  squalor !  How  is  one  to  escape  this  sor- 
didness !  How  get  out  of  this  squalor !" 

Litvinov  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  slightly 
turned  away  from  her. 

All  at  once  Irina  jumped  up  from  her  chair,  and  laid 
both  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"But  you  love  me,  Grisha?  You  love  me?"  she 
murmured,  putting  her  face  close  to  him,  and  her  eyes, 
still  filled  with  tears,  sparkled  with  the  light  of  hap- 
piness, "You  love  me,  dear,  even  in  this  horrid  dress?" 

Litvinov  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  her. 

"Ah,  love  me,  love  me,  my  sweet,  my  savior,"  she 
whispered,  bending  over  him. 

So  the  days  flew,  the  weeks  passed,  and  though  as 
yet  there  had  been  no  formal  declaration,  though  Lit- 
vinov still  deferred  his  demand  for  her  hand,  not,  cer- 
tainly, at  his  own  desire,  but  awaiting  directions  from 
Irina  (she  remarked  sometimes  that  they  were  both 
ridiculously  young,  and  they  must  add  at  least  a  few 
weeks  more  to  their  years),  still  everything  was  mov- 
ing to  a  conclusion,  and  the  future  as  it  came  nearer 
grew  more  and  more  clearly  defined,  when  suddenly  an 
event  occurred,  which  scattered  all  their  dreams  and 
plans  like  light  roadside  dust. 


VIII 

THAT  winter  the  court  visited  Moscow.  One  fes- 
tivity followed  another ;  in  its  turn  came  the  customary 
great  ball  in  the  Hall  of  Nobility.  The  news  of  this 
ball,  only,  it  is  true,  in  the  form  of  an  announcement 
in  the  Political  Gazette,  reached  even  the  little  house 
in  Dogs'  Place.  The  prince  was  the  first  to  be  roused 
by  it;  he  decided  at  once  that  he  must  not  fail  to  go 
and  take  Irina,  that  it  would  be  unpardonable  to  let 
slip  the  opportunity  of  seeing  their  sovereigns,  that  for 
the  old  nobility  this  constituted  indeed  a  duty  in  its 
own  way.  He  defended  his  opinion  with  a  peculiar 
warmth,  not  habitual  in  him ;  the  princess  agreed  with 
him  to  some  extent,  and  only  sighed  over  the  expense ; 
but  a  resolute  opposition  was  displayed  by  Irina.  "It 
is  not  necessary,  I  will  not  go,"  she  replied  to  all  her 
parents'  arguments.  Her  obstinacy  reached  such  pro- 
portions that  the  old  prince  decided  at  last  to  beg  Lit- 
vinov  to  try  to  persuade  her,  by  reminding  her  among 
other  reasons  that  it  was  not  proper  for  a  young  girl 
to  avoid  society,  that  she  ought  to  "have  this  experi- 
ence," that  no  one  ever  saw  her  anywhere,  as  it  was. 
Litvinov  undertook  to  lay  these  "reasons"  before  her. 
Irina  looked  steadily  and  scrutinizingly  at  him,  so 
steadily  and  scrutinizingly  that  he  was  confused,  and 
then,  playing  with  the  ends  of  her  sash,  she  said 
calmly : 

"Do  you  desire  it,  you?" 

"Yes.  ...  I  suppose  so,"  replied  Litvinov  hesitat- 
ingly. "I  agree  with  your  papa.  .  .  .  Indeed,  why 
57 


58  SMOKE 

should  you  not  go  ...  to  see  the  world,  and  show 
yourself,"  he  added  with  a  short  laugh. 

"To  show  myself,"  she  repeated  slowly.  "Very 
well  then,  I  will  go.  ...  Only  remember,  it  is  you 
yourself  who  desired  it." 

"That's  to  say,  I "  Litvinov  was  beginning. 

"You  yourself  have  desired  it,"  she  interposed. 
"And  here  is  one  condition  more;  you  must  promise 
me  that  you  will  not  be  at  this  ball." 

"But  why  ?" 

"I  wish  it  to  be  so." 

Litvinov  unclasped  his  hands. 

"I  submit  .  .  .  but  I  confess  I  should  so  have  en- 
joyed seeing  you  in  all  your  grandeur,  witnessing  the 
sensation  you  are  certain  to  make.  .  .  .  How  proud  I 
should  be  of  you !"  he  added  with  a  sigh. 

Irina  laughed. 

"All  the  grandeur  will  consist  of  a  white  frock, 
and  as  for  the  sensation.  .  .  .  Well,  any  way,  I  wish 
it." 

"Irina,  darling,  you  seem  to  be  angry  ?" 

Irina  laughed  again. 

"Oh,  no !  I  am  not  angry.  Only,  Grisha  .  .  .  ( She 
fastened  her  eyes  on  him,  and  he  thought  he  had  never 
before  seen  such  an  expression  in  them.)  "Perhaps, 
it  must  be,"  she  added  in  an  undertone. 

"But,  Irina,  you  love  me,  dear?" 

"I  love  you,"  she  answered  with  almost  solemn 
gravity,  and  she  clasped  his  hand  firmly  like  a  man. 

All  the  following  days  Irina  was  busily  occupied 
over  her  dress  and  her  coiffure;  on  the  day  before  the 
ball  she  felt  unwell,  she  could  not  sit  still,  and  twice 
she  burst  into  tears  in  solitude;  before  Litvinov  she 
wore  the  same  uniform  smile.  .  .  .  She  treated  him, 
however,  with  her  old  tenderness,  but  carelessly,  and 


SMOKE  59 

was  constantly  looking  at  herself  in  the  glass.  On  the 
day  of  the  ball  she  was  silent  and  pale,  but  collected. 
At  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  Litvinov  came  to  look 
at  her.  When  she  came  to  meet  him  in  a  white  tar- 
latan gown,  with  a  spray  of  small  blue  flowers  in  her 
slightly  raised  hair,  he  almost  uttered  a  cry;  she 
seemed  to  him  so  lovely  and  stately  beyond  what  was 
natural  to  her  years.  "Yes,  she  has  grown  up  since 
this  morning!"  he  thought,  "and  how  she  holds  her- 
self! That's  what  race  does!"  Irina  stood  before 
him,  her  hands  hanging  loose,  without  smiles  or  affec- 
tation, and  looked  resolutely,  almost  boldly,  not  at  him, 
but  away  into  the  distance  straight  before  her. 

"You  are  just  like  a  princess  in  a  story  book,"  said 
Litvinov  at  last.  "You  are  like  a  warrior  before  the 
battle,  before  victory.  .  .  .  You  did  not  allow  me  to  go 
to  this  ball,"  he  went  on,  while  she  remained  motionless 
as  before,  not  because  she  was  not  listening  to  him, 
but  because  she  was  following  another  inner  voice, 
"but  you  will  not  refuse  to  accept  and  take  with  you 
these  flowers?" 

He  offered  her  a  bunch  of  heliotrope.  She  looked 
quickly  at  Litvinov,  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  sud- 
denly seizing  the  end  of  the  spray  which  decorated 
her  hair,  she  said  : 

"Do  you  wish  it,  Grisha?  Only  say  the  word,  and 
I  will  tear  off  all  this,  and  stop  at  home." 

Litvinov's  heart  seemed  fairly  bursting.  Irina's  hand 
had  already  snatched  the  spray.  .  .  . 

"No,  no,  what  for?"  he  interposed  hurriedly,  in  a 
rush  of  generous  and  magnanimous  feeling,  "I  am 
not  an  egoist.  .  .  .  Why  should  I  restrict  your  free- 
dom .  .  .  when  I  know  that  your  heart " 

"Well,  don't  come  near  me,  you  will  crush  my  dress," 
she  said  hastily. 


60  SMOKE 

Litvinov  was  disturbed. 

"But  you  will  take  the  nosegay?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course;  it  is  very  pretty,  and  I  love  that  scent. 
Merci — I  shall  keep  it  in  memory " 

"Of  your  first  coming  out,"  observed  Litvinov, 
"your  first  triumph." 

Irina  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  herself  in  the 
glass,  scarcely  bending  her  figure. 

"And  do  I  really  look  so  nice?  You  are  not  par- 
tial?" 

Litvinov  overflowed  in  enthusiastic  praises.  Irina 
was  already  not  listening  to  him,  and  holding  the  flow- 
ers up  to  her  face,  she  was  again  looking  away  into 
the  distance  with  her  strange,  as  it  were,  overshadowed, 
dilated  eyes,  and  the  ends  of  her  delicate  ribbons 
stirred  by  a  faint  current  of  air  rose  slightly  behind 
her  shoulders  like  wings. 

The  prince  made  his  appearance,  his  hair  well  be- 
curled,  in  a  white  tie,  and  a  shabby  black  evening  coat, 
with  the  medal  of  nobility  on  a  Vladimir  ribbon  in  his 
buttonhole.  After  him  came  the  princess  in  a  china 
silk  dress  of  antique  cut,  and  with  the  anxious  severity 
under  which  mothers  try  to  conceal  their  agitation, 
set  her  daughter  to  rights  behind,  that  is  to  say,  quite 
needlessly  shook  out  the  folds  of  her  gown.  An  an- 
tiquated hired  coach  with  seats  for  four,  drawn  by  two 
shaggy  hacks,  crawled  up  to  the  steps,  its  wheels  grat- 
ing over  the  frozen  mounds  of  unswept  snow,  and 
a  decrepit  groom  in  a  most  unlikely-looking  livery 
came  running  out  of  the  passage,  and  with  a  sort  of 
desperate  courage  announced  that  the  carriage  was 
ready.  .  .  .  After  giving  a  blessing  for  the  night  to 
the  children  left  at  home,  and  enfolding  themselves 
in  their  fur  wraps,  the  prince  and  princess  went  out  to 
the  steps;  Irina  in  a  little  cloak,  too  thin  and  too 


SMOKE  61 

short — how  she  hated  the  little  cloak  at  that  moment ! 
— followed  them  in  silence.  Litvinov  escorted  them 
outside,  hoping  for  a  last  look  from  Irina,  but  she 
took  her  seat  in  the  carriage  without  turning  her 
head. 

About  midnight  he  walked  under  the  windows  of  the 
Hall  of  Nobility.  Countless  lights  of  huge  candelabra 
shone  with  brilliant  radiance  through  the  red  curtains ; 
and  the  whole  square,  blocked  with  carriages,  was  ring- 
ing with  the  insolent,  festive,  seductive  strains  of  a 
waltz  of  Strauss. 

The  next  day  at  one  o'clock,  Litvinov  betook  himself 
to  the  Osinins'.  He  found  no  one  at  home  but  the 
prince,  who  informed  him  at  once  that  Irina  had  a 
headache,  that  she  was  in  bed,  and  would  not  get  up  till 
the  evening,  that  such  an  indisposition  was,  however, 
little  to  be  wondered  at  after  a  first  ball. 

"C'est  tres  naturel,  vous  saves,  dans  les  jeunes  fittes," 
he  added  in  French,  somewhat  to  Litvinov's  surprise; 
the  latter  observed  at  the  same  instant  that  the  prince 
was  not  in  his  dressing-gown  as  usual,  but  was  wear- 
ing a  coat.  "And  besides,"  continued  Osinin,  "she 
may  well  be  a  little  upset  after  the  events  of  yester- 
day!" 

"Events?"  muttered  Litvinov. 

"Yes,  yes,  events,  events,  de  vrais  evenements.  You 
cannot  imagine,  Grigory  Mihalovitch,  quel  succts  elle 
a  eu !  The  whole  court  noticed  her !  Prince  Alexander 
Fedorovitch  said  that  her  place  was  not  here,  and  that 
she  reminded  him  of  Countess  Devonshirse.  You 
know  .  .  .  that  .  .  .  celebrated.  .  .  .  And  old  Blaz- 
enkrampf  declared  in  the  hearing  of  all,  that  Irina 
was  la  reine  du  bat,  and  desired  to  be  introduced  to  her ; 
he  was  introduced  to  me,  too,  that's  to  say,  he  told 
me  that  he  remembered  me  as  a  hussar,  and  asked  me 


62  SMOKE 

where  I  was  holding  office  now.  Most  entertaining 
man  that  Count,  and  such  an  adorateur  du  beau  sexe! 
But  that's  not  all ;  my  princess  .  .  .  they  gave  her  no 
peace  either :  Natalya  Nikitishna  herself  conversed  with 
her  .  .  .  what  more  could  we  have?  Irina  danced 
avec  toils  Us  meilleiirs  cavaliers;  they  kept  bringing 
them  up  to  me.  ...  I  positively  lost  count  of  them. 
Would  you  believe  it,  they  were  all  flocking  about  us 
in  crowds ;  in  the  mazurka  they  did  nothing  but  seek 
her  out.  One  foreign  diplomatist,  hearing  she  was  a 
Moscow  girl,  said  to  the  Tsar:  'Sire'  he  said, 
'decidement  c'est  Moscou  qui  est  le  centre  de  votre 
empire!'  and  another  diplomatist  added:  'C'est  une 
vraie  revolution,  Sire — revelation  or  revolution  .  .  .' 
something  'of  that  sort.  Yes,  yes,  it  was.  I  tell  you  it 
was  something  extraordinary." 

"Well,  and  Irina  Pavlovna  herself?"  inquired  Lit- 
vinov,  whose  hands  and  feet  had  grown  cold  hearing 
the  prince's  speech,  "did  she  enjoy  herself,  did  she  seem 
pleased?" 

"Of  course  she  enjoyed  herself;  how  could  she  fail 
to  be  pleased?  But,  as  you  know,  she's  not  to  be  seen 
through  at  a  glance !  Every  one  was  saying  to  me  yes- 
terday :  it  is  really  surprising !  jamais  on  ne  dirait  que 
mademoiselle  votre  fille  est  a  son  premier  bal.  Count 
Reisenbach,  among  the  rest  .  .  .  you  know  him  most 
likely." 

"No,  I  don't  know  him  at  all,  and  have  never  heard 
of  him." 

"My  wife's  cousin." 

"I  don't  know  him." 

"A  rich  man,  a  chamberlain,  living  in  Petersburg,  in 
the  swim  of  things;  in  Livonia  every  one  is  in  his 
hands.  Hitherto  he  has  neglected  us  ...  but  there, 
I  don't  bear  him  ill-will  for  that.  J'ai  I'humeur  facile, 


SMOKE  63 

comme  vous  saves.  Well,  that's  the  kind  of  man  he  is. 
He  sat  near  Irina,  conversed  with  her  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  not  more,  and  said  afterwards  to  my  princess  : 
'Ma  cousine'  he  says,  'votre  fille  est  une  perle;  c'est 
tine  perfection,  every  one  is  congratulating  me  on  such 
a  niece.  .  .  /  And  afterwards  I  look  around — and  he 
had  gone  up  to  a  .  .  .  a  very  great  personage,  and  was 
talking,  and  kept  looking  at  Irina  .  .  .  and  the  person- 
age was  looking  at  her  too.  ..." 

"And  so  Irina  Pavlovna  will  not  appear  all  day?" 
Litvinov  asked  again. 

"Quite  so ;  her  head  aches  very  badly.  She  told  me 
to  greet  you  from  her,  and  thank  you  for  your  flowers, 
qu'on  a  trouve  charmant.  She  needs  rest.  .  .  .  The 
princess  has  gone  out  on  a  round  of  visits  .  .  .  and  I 
myself  .  .  .  you  see.  .  .  ." 

The  prince  cleared  his  throat,  and  began  to  fidget 
as  though  he  were  at  a  loss  what  to  add  further.  Lit- 
vinov took  his  hat,  and  saying  he  did  not  want  to  dis- 
turb him,  and  would  call  again  later  to  inquire  after 
her  health,  he  went  away. 

A  few  steps  from  the  Osinins'  house  he  saw  an  ele- 
gant carriage  for  two  persons  standing  before  the 
police  sentry-box.  A  groom  in  livery,  equally  elegant, 
was  bending  negligently  from  the  box,  and  inquiring  of 
the  Finnish  police-sergeant  whereabouts  Prince  Pavel 
Vassilyevitch  Osinin  lived.  Litvinov  glanced  at  the 
carriage;  in  it  sat  a  middle-aged  man  of  bloated  com- 
plexion, with  a  wrinkled  and  haughty  face,  a  Greek 
nose,  and  an  evil  mouth,  muffled  in  a  sable  wrap,  by 
all  outward  signs  a  very  great  man  indeed. 


IX 

LITVINOV  did  not  keep  his  promise  of  returning 
later;  he  reflected  that  it  would  be  better  to  defer  his 
visit  till  the  following  day.  When  he  went  into  the 
too  familiar  drawing-room  at  about  twelve  o'clock,  he 
found  there  the  two  youngest  princesses,  Viktorinka 
and  Kleopatrinka.  He  greeted  them,  and  then  in- 
quired, "Was  Irina  Pavlovna  better,  and  could  he  see 
her?" 

"Irinotchka  has  gone  away  with  mammy,"  replied 
Viktorinka;  she  lisped  a  little,  but  was  more  forward 
than  her  sister. 

"How  .  .  .  gone  away?"  repeated  Litvinov,  and 
there  was  a  sort  of  still  shudder  in  the  very  bottom  of 
his  heart.  "Does  she  not,  does  she  not  look  after  you 
about  this  time,  and  give  you  your  lessons  ?" 

"Irinotchka  will  not  give  us  any  lessons  any  more 
now,"  answered  Viktorinka.  "Not  any  more  now," 
Kleopatrinka  repeated  after  her. 

"Is  your  papa  at  home?"  asked  Litvinov. 

"Papa  is  not  at  home,"  continued  Viktorinka,  "and 
Trinotchka  is  not  well ;  all  night  long  she  was  crying 
and  crying.  .  .  ." 

"Crying?" 

"Yes,  crying  .  .  .  Yegorovna  told  me,  and  her  eyes 
are  so  red,  they  are  quite  in-inflamed.  .  .  ." 

Litvinov  walked  twice  up  and  down  the  room  shud- 
dering as  though  with  cold,  and  went  back  to  his 
lodging.  He  experienced  a  sensation  like  that  which 
gains  possession  of  a  man  when  he  looks  down  from  a 
64 


SMOKE  65 

high  tower ;  everything  failed  within  him,  and  his  head 
was  swimming  slowly  with  a  sense  of  nausea.  Dull 
stupefaction,  and  thoughts  scurrying  like  mice,  vague 
terror,  and  the  numbness  of  expectation,  and  curiosity 
— strange,  almost  malignant — and  the  weight  of 
crushed  tears  in  his  heavy  laden  breast,  on  his  lips 
the  forced  empty  smile,  and  a  meaningless  prayer — 
addressed  to  no  one.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  bitter  it  all  was, 
and  how  hideously  degrading!  "Irina  does  not  want 
to  see  me,"  was  the  thought  that  was  incessantly  re- 
volving in  his  brain;  "so  much  is  clear;  but  why  is  it? 
What  can  have  happened  at  that  ill-fated  ball?  And 
how  is  such  a  change  possible  all  at  once?  So  sud- 
denly. .  .  ."  People  always  see  death  coming  sud- 
denly, but  they  can  never  get  accustomed  to  its  sud- 
denness, they  feel  it  senseless.  "She  sends  no  message 
for  me,  does  not  want  to  explain  herself  to  me.  .  .  ." 

"Grigory  Mihalitch,"  called  a  strained  voice  posi- 
tively in  his  ear. 

Litvinov  started,  and  saw  before  him  his  servant 
with  a  note  in  his  hand.  He  recognized  Irina's  writ- 
ing. .  .  .  Before  he  had  broken  the  seal,  he  had  a  fore- 
knowledge of  woe,  and  bent  his  head  on  his  breast  and 
hunched  his  shoulders,  as  though  shrinking  from  the 
blow. 

He  plucked  up  courage  at  last,  and  tore  open  the 
envelope  all  at  once.  On  a  small  sheet  of  notepaper 
were  the  following  lines  : 

"Forgive  me,  Grigory  Mihalitch.  All  is  over  be- 
tween us ;  I  am  going  away  to  Petersburg.  I  am  dread- 
fully unhappy,  but  the  thing  is  done.  It  seems  my 
fate  .  .  .  but  no,  I  do  not  want  to  justify  myself.  My 
presentiments  have  been  realized.  Forgive  me,  forget 
me;  I  am  not  worthy  of  you. — Irina.  Be  magnani- 
mous :  do  not  try  to  see  me." 


66  SMOKE 

Litvinov  read  these  five  lines,  and  slowly  dropped 
on  to  the  sofa,  as  though  some  one  had  dealt  him  a 
blow  on  the  breast.  He  dropped  the  note,  picked  it  up, 
read  it  again,  whispered  "to  Petersburg,"  and  dropped 
it  again;  that  was  all.  There  even  came  upon  him  a 
sense  of  peace ;  he  even,  with  his  hands  thrown  behind 
him,  smoothed  the  pillow  under  his  head.  "Men 
wounded  to  death,  don't  fling  themselves  about,"  he 
thought,  "as  it  has  come,  so  it  has  gone.  All  this  is 
natural  enough  :  I  always  expected  it.  .  .  ."  (He  was 
lying  to  himself ;  he  had  never  expected  anything  like 
it.)  "Crying?  .  .  .  Was  she  crying?  .  .  .  What  was 
she  crying  for?  Why,  she  did  not  love  me.  But  all 
that  is  easily  understood  and  in  accordance  with  her 
character.  She — she  is  not  worthy  of  me.  .  .  .  That's 
it!"  (He  laughed  bitterly.)  "She  did  not  know  her- 
self what  power  was  latent  in  her, — well,  convinced 
of  it  in  her  effect  at  the  ball,  was  it  likely  she  would 
stay  with  an  insignificant  student? — all  that's  easily 
understood." 

But  then  he  remembered  her  tender  words,  her  smile, 
and  those  eyes,  those  never  to  be  forgotten  eyes,  which 
he  would  never  see  again,  which  used  to  shine  and 
melt  at  simply  meeting  his  eyes ;  he  recalled  one  swift, 
timorous,  burning  kiss — and  suddenly  he  fell  to  sob- 
bing, sobbing  convulsively,  furiously,  vindictively; 
turned  over  on  his  face,  and  choking  and  stifling  with 
frenzied  satisfaction  as  though  thirsting  to  tear  him- 
self to  pieces  with  all  around  him,  he  turned  his  hot 
face  in  the  sofa  pillow,  and  bit  it  in  his  teeth. 

Alas !  the  gentleman  whom  Litvinov  had  seen  the 
day  before  in  the  carriage  was  no  other  than  the  cousin 
of  the  Princess  Osinin,  the  rich  chamberlain,  Count 
Reisenbach.  Noticing  the  sensation  produced  by  Irina 
on  certain  personages  of  the  highest  rank,  and  instan- 


SMOKE  67 

taneously  reflecting  what  advantages  might  mit  etwas 
Accuratesse  be  derived  from  the  fact,  the  count  made 
his  plan  at  once  like  a  man  of  energy  and  a  skillful 
courtier.  He  decided  to  act  swiftly,  in  Napoleonic 
style.  "I  will  take  that  original  girl  into  my  house," 
was  what  he  meditated,  "in  Petersburg;  I  will  make 
her  my  heiress,  devil  take  me,  of  my  whole  property 
even;  as  I  have  no  children.  She  is  my  niece,  and 
my  countess  is  dull  all  alone.  .  .  .  It's  always  more 
agreeable  to  have  a  pretty  face  in  one's  drawing-room. 
.  .  .  Yes,  yes;  .  .  .  that's  it;  es  ist  eine  Idee,  es  ist 
eine  Idee!"  He  would  have  to  dazzle,  bewilder,  and 
impress  the  parents.  "They've  not  enough  to  eat" — 
the  count  pursued  his  reflection  when  he  was  in  the  car- 
riage and  on  his  way  to  Dogs'  Place — "so,  I  warrant 
they  won't  be  obstinate.  They're  not  such  over-sen- 
timental folks  either.  I  might  give  them  a  sum  of 
money  down  into  the  bargain.  And  she?  She  will 
consent.  Honey  is  sweet — she  had  a  taste  of  it  last 
night.  It's  a  whim  on  my  part,  granted;  let  them 
profit  by  it,  ...  the  fools.  I  shall  say  to  them  one 
thing  and  another  .  .  .  and  you  must  decide — other- 
wise I  shall  adopt  another — an  orphan — which  would 
be  still  more  suitable.  Yes  or  no — twenty-four  hours 
I  fix  for  the  term — und  damit  Punctum." 

And  with  these  very  words  on  his  lips,  the  count 
presented  himself  before  the  prince,  whom  he  had  fore- 
warned of  his  visit  the  evening  before  at  the  ball.  On 
the  result  of  this  visit  it  seems  hardly  worth  while  to 
enlarge  further.  The  count  was  not  mistaken  in  his 
prognostications :  the  prince  and  princess  were  in  fact 
not  obstinate,  and  accepted  the  sum  of  money;  and 
Irina  did  in  fact  consent  before  the  allotted  term  had 
expired.  It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  break  off  her 
relations  with  Litvinov ;  she  loved  him ;  and  after  send- 


68  SMOKE 

ing  him  her  note,  she  almost  kept  her  bed,  weeping  con- 
tinually, and  grew  thin  and  wan.  But  for  all  that,  a 
month  later  the  princess  carried  her  off  to  Petersburg, 
and  established  her  at  the  count's ;  committing  her  to 
the  care  of  the  countess,  a  very  kind-hearted  woman, 
but  with  the  brain  of  a  hen,  and  something  of  a  hen's 
exterior. 

Litvinov  threw  up  the  university,  and  went  home  to 
his  father  in  the  country.  Little  by  little  his  wound 
healed.  At  first  he  had  no  news  of  Irina,  and  indeed 
he  avoided  all  conversation  that  touched  on  Petersburg 
and  Petersburg  society.  Later  on,  by  degrees,  rumors 
— not  evil  exactly,  but  curious — began  to  circulate 
about  her;  gossip  began  to  be  busy  about  her.  The 
name  of  the  young  Princess  Osinin,  encircled  in  splen- 
dor, impressed  with  quite  a  special  stamp,  began  to  be 
more  and  more  frequently  mentioned  even  in  provincial 
circles.  It  was  pronounced  with  curiosity,  respect,  and 
envy,  as  men  at  one  time  used  to  mention  the  name  of 
the  Countess  Vorotinsky.  At  last  the  news  came  of 
her  marriage.  But  Litvinov  hardly  paid  attention  to 
these  last  tidings;  he  was  already  betrothed  to  Tat- 
yana. 

Now,  the  reader  can  no  doubt  easily  understand 
exactly  what  it  was  Litvinov  recalled  when  he  cried, 
"Can  it  be  she  ?"  and  therefore  we  will  return  to  Baden 
and  take  up  again  the  broken  thread  of  our  story. 


LITVINOV  fell  asleep  very  late,  and  did  not  sleep 
long;  the  sun  had  only  just  risen  when  he  got  out  of 
bed.  The  summits  of  dark  mountains  visible  from  his 
windows  stood  out  in  misty  purple  against  the  clear 
sky.  "How  cool  it  must  be  there  under  the  trees !" 
he  thought;  and  he  dressed  in  haste,  and  looked  with 
indifference  at  the  bouquet  which  had  opened  more 
luxuriantly  after  the  night ;  he  took  a  stick  and  set  off 
towards  the  "Old  Castle"  on  the  famous  "Cliffs." 
Invigorating  and  soothing  was  the  caressing  contact  of 
the  fresh  morning  about  him.  He  drew  long  breaths, 
and  stepped  out  boldly;  the  vigorous  health  of  youth 
was  throbbing  in  every  vein ;  the  very  earth  seemed 
springy  under  his  light  feet.  With  every  step  he  grew 
more  light-hearted,  more  happy ;  he  walked  in  the 
dewy  shade  in  the  thick  sand  of  the  little  paths,  beside 
the  fir-trees  that  were  fringed  with  the  vivid  green 
of  the  spring  shoots  at  the  end  of  every  twig.  "How 
jolly  it  is !"  he  kept  repeating  to  himself.  Suddenly  he 
heard  the  sound  of  familiar  voices ;  he  looked  ahead 
and  saw  Voroshilov  and  Bambaev  coming  to  meet  him. 
The  sight  of  them  jarred  upon  him ;  he  rushed  away 
like  a  school-boy  avoiding  his  teacher,  and  hid  him- 
self behind  a  bush.  .  .  .  "My  Creator!"  he  prayed, 
"mercifully  remove  my  countrymen !"  He  felt  that  he 
would  not  have  grudged  any  money  at  the  moment  if 
only  they  did  not  see  him.  .  .  .  And  they  actually  did 
69 


7o  SMOKE 

not  see  him :  the  Creator  was  merciful  to  him.  Voro- 
shilov,  in  his  self-confident  military  voice,  was  holding 
forth  to  Bambaev  on  the  various  phases  of  Gothic  ar- 
chitecture, and  Bambaev  only  grunted  approvingly ;  it 
was  obvious  that  Voroshilov  had  been  dinning  his 
phrases  into  him  a  long  while,  and  the  good-natured 
enthusiast  was  beginning  to  be  bored.  Compressing  his 
lips  and  craning  his  neck,  Litvinov  listened  a  long 
while  to  their  retreating  footsteps ;  for  a  long  time  the 
accents  of  instructive  discourse — now  guttural,  now 
nasal — reached  his  ears;  at  last,  all  was  still  again. 
Litvinov  breathed  freely,  came  out  of  his  ambush,  and 
walked  on. 

For  three  hours  he  wandered  about  the  mountains. 
Sometimes  he  left  the  path,  and  jumped  from  rock  to 
rock,  slipping  now  and  then  on  the  smooth  moss ;  then 
he  would  sit  down  on  a  fragment  of  the  cliff  under  an 
oak  or  a  beech,  and  muse  on  pleasant  fancies  to  the 
never-ceasing  gurgle  of  the  little  rills  overgrown  with 
ferns,  the  soothing  rustle  of  the  leaves,  and  the  shrill 
notes  of  a  solitary  blackbird.  A  light  and  equally 
pleasant  drowsiness  began  to  steal  over  him,  it  seemed 
to  approach  him  caressingly,  and  he  dropped  asleep 
.  .  .  but  suddenly  be  smiled  and  looked  around;  the 
gold  and  green  of  the  forest,  and  the  moving  foliage 
beat  down  softly  on  his  eyes — and  again  he  smiled  and 
again  closed  them.  He  began  to  want  breakfast,  and 
he  made  his  way  towards  the  old  castle  where  for  a 
few  kreutzers  he  could  get  a  glass  of  good  milk  and 
coffee.  But  he  had  hardly  had  time  to  establish  himself 
at  one  of  the  little  white-painted  tables  set  on  the 
platform  before  the  castle,  when  the  heavy  tramping  of 
horses  was  heard,  and  three  open  carriages  drove  up, 
out  of  which  stepped  a  rather  numerous  company  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen  .  .  Litvinov  at  once  recognized 


SMOKE  71 

them  as  Russians,  though  they  were  all  talking  French 
.  .  .  just  because  they  were  all  talking  French.  The 
ladies'  dresses  were  marked  by  a  studied  elegance; 
the  gentlemen  wore  close-fitting  coats  with  waists — 
which  is  not  altogether  usual  nowadays — gray  trous- 
ers of  fancy  material,  and  very  glossy  town  hats.  A 
narrow  black  cravat  closely  fettered  the  neck  of  each  of 
these  gentlemen,  and  something  military  was  apparent 
in  their  whole  deportment.  They  were,  in  fact,  mili- 
tary men ;  Litvinov  had  chanced  upon  a  picnic  party  of 
young  generals — persons  of  the  highest  society,  of 
weight  and  importance.  Their  importance  was  clearly 
expressed  in  everything :  in  their  discreet  nonchalance, 
in  their  amiably  condescending  smiles,  in  the  intense 
indifference  of  their  expression,  the  effeminate  little 
movements  of  their  shoulders,  the  swing  of  the  figure, 
and  the  crook  of  the  knees ;  it  was  expressed,  too,  in 
the  sound  of  their  voices,  which  seemed  to  be  affably 
and  fastidiously  thanking  a  subservient  multitude.  All 
these  officers  were  superlatively  washed  and  shaved, 
and  thoroughly  saturated  with  that  genuine  aroma  of 
nobility  and  the  Guards,  compounded  of  the  best  cigar 
smoke,  and  the  most  marvelous  patchouli.  They  all 
had  the  hands  too  of  noblemen — white  and  large,  with 
nails  firm  as  ivory ;  their  moustaches  seemed  posi- 
tively polished,  their  teeth  shone,  and  their  skin — rosy 
on  their  cheeks,  bluish  on  their  chins — was  most  deli- 
cate and  fine.  Some  of  the  young  generals  were  frivol- 
ous, others  were  serious;  but  the  stamp  of  the  best 
breeding  was  on  all  of  them.  Each  of  them  seemed  to 
be  deeply  conscious  of  his  own  dignity,  and  the  im- 
portance of  his  own  future  part  in  the  government,  and 
conducted  himself  with  severity  and  ease,  with  a  faint 
shade  of  that  carelessness,  that  "deuce-take-it"  air, 
which  comes  out  so  naturally  during  foreign  travel. 


72  SMOKE 

The  party  seated  themselves  with  much  noise  and  os- 
tentation, and  called  the  obsequious  waiters.  Litvinov 
made  haste  to  drink  off  his  glass  of  milk,  paid  for  it, 
and  putting  his  hat  on,  was  just  making  off  past  the 
party  of  generals.  .  .  . 

"Grigory  Mihalitch,"  he  heard  a  woman's  voice. 
"Don't  you  recognize  me?" 

He  stopped  involuntarily.  That  voice.  .  .  .  that 
voice  had  too  often  set  his  heart  beating  in  the  past. 
...  He  turned  round  and  saw  Irina. 

She  was  sitting  at  a  table,  her  arms  folded  on  the 
back  of  a  chair  drawn  up  near ;  with  her  head  bent  on 
one  side  and  a  smile  on  her  face,  she  was  looking  at 
him  cordially,  almost  with  delight. 

Litvinov  knew  her  at  once,  though  she  had  changed 
since  he  saw  her  that  last  time  ten  years  ago,  though 
she  had  been  transformed  from  a  girl  into  a  woman. 
Her  slim  figure  had  developed  and  reached  its  per- 
fection, the  lines  of  her  once  narrow  shoulders  now 
recalled  the  goddesses  that  stand  out  on  the  ceilings  of 
ancient  Italian  palaces.  But  her  eyes  remained  the 
same,  and  it  seemed  to  Litvinov  that  they  were  looking 
at  him  just  as  in  those  days  in  the  little  house  in  Mos- 
cow. 

"Irina  Pavlovna,"  he  uttered  irresolutely. 

"You  know  me?    How  glad  I  am!  how  glad " 

She  stopped  short,  slightly  blushing,  and  drew  her- 
self up. 

"This  is  a  very  pleasant  meeting,"  she  continued 
now  in  French.  "Let  me  introduce  you  to  my 
husband.  Valerien,  Monsieur  Litvinov,  un  ami 
d'enfance;  Valerian  Vladimirovitch  Ratmirov,  my  hus- 
band. 

One  of  the  young  generals,  almost  the  most  elegant 
of  all,  got  up  from  his  seat,  and  with  excessive  courtesy 


SMOKE  73 

bowed  to  Litvinov,  while  the  rest  of  his  companions 
faintly  knitted  their  brows,  or  rather  each  of  them 
withdrew  for  an  instant  into  himself,  as  though  pro- 
testing betimes  against  any  contact  with  an  extraneous 
civilian,  and  the  other  ladies  taking  part  in  the  picnic 
thought  fit  to  screw  up  their  eyes  a  little  and  simper, 
and  even  to  assume  an  air  of  perplexity. 

"Have  you — er — been  long  in  Baden?"  asked  Gen- 
eral Ratmirov,  with  a  dandified  air  utterly  un-Russian. 
He  obviously  did  not  know  what  to  talk  about  with  the 
friend  of  his  wife's  childhood. 

"No,  not  long!"  replied  Litvinov. 

"And  do  you  intend  to  stay  long?"  pursued  the 
polite  general. 

"I  have  not  made  up  my  mind  yet." 

"Ah!  that  is  very  delightful  .  .  .  very." 

The  general  paused.  Litvinov,  too,  was  speechless. 
Both  held  their  hats  in  their  hands  and  bending  for- 
ward with  a  grin,  gazed  at  the  top  of  each  other's 
heads. 

"Deux  gendarmes  un  beau  dimanche,"  began  hum- 
ming— out  of  tune  of  course,  we  have  never  come 
across  a  Russian  nobleman  who  did  not  sing  out  of 
tune — a  dull-eyed  and  yellow-faced  general,  with  an 
expression  of  constant  irritability  on  his  face,  as  though 
he  could  not  forgive  himself  for  his  own  appearance. 
Among  all  his  companions  he  alone  had  not  the  com- 
plexion of  a  rose. 

"But  why  don't  you  sit  down,  Grigory  Mihalitch," 
observed  Irina  at  last. 

Litvinov  obeyed  and  sat  down. 

"I  say,  Valerien,  give  me  some  fire,"  remarked  in 
English  another  general,  also  young,  but  already  stout, 
with  fixed  eyes  which  seemed  staring  into  the  air,  and 
thick  <=ilky  whiskers,  into  which  he  slowly  plunged  his 


74  SMOKE 

snow-white  fingers.  Ratmirov  gave  him  a  silver  match- 
box. 

"Avez  vous  des  papiros?"  asked  one  of  the  ladies, 
with  a  lisp. 

"De  vrais  papelitos,  comtesse" 

"Deux  gendarmes  un  beau  dimanche,"  the  dull-eyed 
general  hummed  again,  with  intense  exasperation. 

"You  must  be  sure  to  come  and  see  us,"  Irina  was 
saying  to  Litvinov  meantime;  "we  are  staying  at  the 
Hotel  de  1' Europe.  From  four  to  six  I  am  always  at 
home.  We  have  not  seen  each  other  for  such  a  long 
time." 

Litvinov  looked  at  Irina ;  she  did  not  drop  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  Irina  Pavlovna,  it  is  a  long  time — ever  since 
we  were  at  Moscow." 

"At  Moscow,  yes,  at  Moscow,"  she  repeated  abrupt- 
ly. "Come  and  see  me,  we  will  talk  and  recall  old 
times.  Do  you  know,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  you  have  not 
changed  much." 

"Really?    But  you  have  changed,  Irina  Pavlovna." 

"I  have  grown  older." 

"No,  I  did  not  mean  that." 

"Irene?"  said  a  lady  in  a  yellow  hat  and  with  yellow 
hair  in  an  interrogative  voice  after  some  preliminary 
whispering  and  giggling  with  the  officer  sitting  near 
her.  "Irene?" 

"I  am  older,"  pursued  Irina,  without  answering  the 
lady,  "but  I  am  not  changed.  No,  no,  I  am  changed  in 
nothing." 

"Deux  gendarmes  un  beau  dimanche!"  was  heard 
again.  The  irritable  general  only  remembered  the  first 
line  of  the  well-known  ditty. 

"It  still  pricks  a  little,  your  excellency,"  observed 
the  stout  general  with  the  whiskers,  with  a  loud  and 
broad  intonation,  apparently  quoting  from  some  amus- 


SMOKE  75 

ing  story,  well-known  to  the  whole  beau  monde,  and 
with  a  short  wooden  laugh  he  again  fell  to  staring  into 
the  air.  All  the  rest  of  the  party  laughed  too. 

"What  a  sad  dog  you  are,  Boris!"  observed  Rat- 
mirov  in  an  undertone.  He  spoke  in  English  and  pro- 
nounced even  the  name  "Boris"  as  if  it  were  English. 

"Irene?"  the  lady  in  the  yellow  hat  said  inquiringly 
for  the  third  time.  Irina  turned  sharply  round  to 
her. 

"Eh  bien?  quoi?  que  me  voulez-vous?" 

"Je  vous  dirai  phis  tard"  replied  the  lady,  mincing. 
With  a  very  unattractive  exterior,  she  was  for  ever 
mincing  and  grimacing.  Some  wit  said  of  her  that  she 
"minaudait  dans  le  vide,"  "grimaced  upon  the  desert 
air." 

Irina  frowned  and  shrugged  her  shoulders  impa- 
tiently. "Mais  que  fait  done  Monsieur  Verdier? 
Pourquoi  ne  vient-il  pas?"  cried  one  lady  with  that 
prolonged  drawl  which  is  the  peculiarity  of  the  Great 
Russian  accent,  and  is  so  insupportable  to  French 
ears. 

"Ah,  voo,  ah,  voo,  mossoo  Verdew,  mossoo  Ver- 
dew,"  sighed  another  lady,  whose  birthplace  was 
Arzamass. 

"Tranquillises-vous,  mesdames,"  interposed  Ratmi- 
rov.  "Monsieur  Verdier  m'a  promis  de  venir  se  mettre 
a  vos  pieds." 

"He,  he,  he!" — The  ladies  fluttered  their  fans. 

The  waiter  brought  some  glasses  of  beer. 

"Baierisch-Bier?"  inquired  the  general  with  whis- 
kers, assuming  a  bass  voice,  and  affecting  astonishment 
— "Gut  en  M  or  gen." 

"Well?  Is  Count  Pavel  still  there?"  one  young  gen- 
eral inquired  coldly  and  listlessly  of  another. 


76  SMOKE 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other  equally  coldly,  "Mais  <?esi 
provisoire.  Serge,  they  say,  will  be  put  in  his  place." 

"Aha !"  filtered  the  first  through  his  teeth. 

"Ah,  yes,"  filtered  the  second. 

"I  can't  understand,"  began  the  general  who  had 
hummed  the  song,  "I  can't  understand  what  induced 
Paul  to  defend  himself — to  bring  forward  all  sorts  of 
reasons.  Certainly,  he  crushed  the  merchant  pretty 
well,  il  lui  a  fait  rendre  gorge  .  .  .  well,  and  what  of 
it?  He  may  have  had  his  own  motives." 

"He  was  afraid  ...  of  being  shown  up  in  the 
newspapers,"  muttered  some  one. 

The  irritable  general  grew  hot. 

"Well,  it  is  too  much !  Newspapers !  Shown  up ! 
If  it  depended  on  me,  I  would  not  let  anything  be 
printed  in  those  papers  but  the  taxes  on  meat  or  bread, 
and  announcements  of  sales  of  boots  or  furs/' 

"And  gentlemen's  properties  up  for  auction,"  put  in 
Ratmirov. 

"Possibly  under  present  circumstances.  .  What 
a  conversation,  though,  in  Baden  au  Vieux-Chateau." 

"Mais  pas  du  tout!  pas  du  tout!"  replied  the  lady 
in  the  yellow  hat,  "j' adore  Ics  questions  politiques." 

"Madame  a  raison,"  interposed  another  general  with 
an  exceedingly 'pleasant  and  girlish-looking  face.  "Why 
should  we  avoid  those  questions  .  .  even  in  Baden  ?" 

As  he  said  these  words  he  looked  urbanely  at  Lit- 
vinov  and  smiled  condescendingly.  "A  man  of  honor 
ought  never  under  any  circumstances  to  disown  his 
convictions.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Of  course,"  rejoined  the  irritable  general,  darting 
a  look  at  Litvinov,  and  as  it  were  indirectly  attacking 
him,  "but  I  don't  see  the  necessity.  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,"  the  condescending  general  interposed  with 
the  same  mildness,  "your  friend,  Valerian  Vladimi- 


SMOKE  77 

rovitch,  just  referred  to  the  sale  of  gentlemen's  estates. 
Well?  Is  not  that  a  fact?" 

"But  it's  impossible  to  sell  them  nowadays ;  nobody 
wants  them !"  cried  the  irritable  general. 

"Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps.  For  that  very  reason  we 
ought  to  proclaim  that  fact  .  .  .  that  sad  fact  at  every 
step.  We  are  ruined  .  .  .  very  good;  we  are  beg- 
gared .  .  .  there's  no  disputing  about  that;  but  we, 
the  great  owners,  we  still  represent  a  principle  .  .  . 
un  principe.  To  preserve  that  principle  is  our  duty. 
Pardon,  madame,  I  think  you  dropped  your  handker- 
chief. When  some,  so  to  say,  darkness  has  come  over 
even  the  highest  minds,  we  ought  submissively  to  point 
out  (the  general  held  out  his  finger)  with  the  finger  of 
a  citizen  the  abyss  to  which  everything  is  tending.  We 
ought  to  warn,  we  ought  to  say  with  respectful  firm- 
ness, 'turn  back,  turn  back.  .  .  .  That  is  what  we 
ought  to  say.'  " 

"There's  no  turning  back  altogether,  though,"  ob- 
served Ratmirov  moodily. 

The  condescending  general  only  grinned. 

"Yes,  altogether,  altogether,  mon  trts  cher.  The 
further  back  the  better." 

The  general  again  looked  courteously  at  Litvinov. 
The  latter  could  not  stand  it. 

"Are  we  to  return  as  far  as  the  Seven  Boyars,  your 
excellency?" 

"Why  not?  I  express  my  opinion  without  hesita- 
tion ;  we  must  undo  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  undo  all  that  has 
been  done." 

"And  the  emancipation  of  the  serfs." 

"And  the  emancipation  ...  as  far  as  that  is  pos- 
sible. On  est  patriote  on  on  ne  Vest  pas.  "And  free- 
dom ?"  they  say  to  me.  Do  you  suppose  that  freedom 
is  prized  by  the  people?  Ask  them " 


78  SMOKE 

"Just  try,"  broke  in  Litvinov,  "taking  that  freedom 
away  again." 

"Comment  nommes-vous  ce  monsieur?"  whispered 
the  general  to  Ratmirov. 

"What  are  you  discussing  here?"  began  the  stout 
general  suddenly.  He  obviously  played  the  part  of 
the  spoiled  child  of  the  party.  "Is  it  all  about  the 
newspapers  ?  About  penny-a-liners  ?  Let  me  tell  you  a 
little  anecdote  of  what  happened  to  me  with  a  scribbling 
fellow — such  a  lovely  thing.  I  was  told  he  had  written 
a  libel  on  me.  Well,  of  course,  I  at  once  had  him 
brought  before  me.  They  brought  me  the  penny-a- 
liner.  'How  was  it,'  said  I,  'my  dear  chap,  you  came 
to  write  this  libel  ?  Was  your  patriotism  too  much  for 
you?'  'Yes,  it  was  too  much,'  says  he.  'Well,'  says  I,- 
'and  do  you  like  money?'  'Yes/  says  he.  Then,  gen- 
tlemen, I  gave  him  the  knob  of  my  cane  to  sniff  at. 
'And  do  you  like  that,  my  angel?'  'No,'  says  he,  'I 
don't  like  that.'  'But  sniff  it  as  you  ought,'  says  I, 
'my  hands  are  clean.'  'I  don't  like  it,'  says  he,  'and 
that's  all.'  'But  I  like  it  very  much,  my  angel,'  says  I, 
'though  not  for  myself.  Do  you  understand  that  al- 
legory, my  treasure?'  'Yes,'  says  he.  'Then  mind  and 
be  a  good  boy  for  the  future,  and  now  here's  a  ruble 
sterling  for  you;  go  away  and  be  grateful  to  me  night 
and  day,'  and  so  the  scribbling  chap  went  off." 

The  general  burst  out  laughing  and  again  every  one 
followed  his  example — every  one  except  Irina,  who  did 
not  even  smile  and  looked  darkly  at  the  speaker. 

The  condescending  general  slapped  Boris  on  the 
shoulder. 

"That's  all  your  invention,  O  friend  of  my  bosom. 
.  .  .  You  threatening  any  one  with  a  stick.  .  .  .  You 
haven't  got  a  stick.  C'est  pour  faire  rire  ces  dames. 
For  the  sake  of  a  good  story.  But  that's  not  the  point. 


SMOKE  79 

I  said  just  now  that  we  must  turn  back  completely. 
Understand  me.  I  am  not  hostile  to  so-called  progress, 
but  all  these  universities  and  seminaries,  and  popular 
schools,  these  students,  priests'  sons,  and  commoners, 
all  these  small  fry,  tout  ce  fond  du  sac,  la  petite  pro- 
priete  pire  que  le  proletariat  (the  general  uttered  this 
in  a  languishing,  almost  faint  voice)  voila  ce  que  m'ef- 
fraie  .  .  .  that's  where  one  ought  to  draw  the  line,  and 
make  other  people  draw  it  too."  (Again  he  gave  Lit- 
vinov  a  genial  glance.)  "Yes,  one  must  draw  the  line. 
Don't  forget  that  among  us  no  one  makes  any  demand, 
no  one  is  asking  for  anything.  Local  government,  for 
instance — who  asks  for  that?  Do  you  ask  for  it?  or 
you,  or  you?  or  you,  mesdames?  You  rule  not  only 
yourselves  but  all  of  us,  you  know."  (The  general's 
handsome  face  was  lighted  up  by  a  smile  of  amuse- 
ment.) "My  dear  friends,  why  should  we  curry  favor 
with  the  multitude?  You  like  democracy,  it  flatters 
you,  and  serves  your  ends  .  .  .  but  you  know  it's  a 
double  weapon.  It  is  better  in  the  old  way,  as  before 
.  .  .  far  more  secure.  Don't  deign  to  reason  with  the 
herd,  trust  in  the  aristocracy,  in  that  alone  is  power. 
.  .  .  Indeed,  it  will  be  better.  And  progress  ...  I 
certainly  have  nothing  against  progress.  Only  don't 
give  us  lawyers  and  sworn  juries  and  elective  officials 
.  .  .  only  don't  touch  discipline,  discipline  before  all 
things — you  may  build  bridges,  and  quays,  and  hospi- 
tals, and  why  not  light  the  streets  with  gas?" 

"Petersburg  has  been  set  on  fire  from  one  end  to  the 
other,  so  there  you  have  your  progress!"  hissed  the 
irritable  general. 

"Yes,  you're  a  mischievous  fellow,  I  can  see,"  said 
the  stout  general,  shaking  his  head  lazily;  "you  would 
do  for  a  chief-prosecutor,  but  in  my  opinion  avec 
Orphee  au.r  enfers  le  procures  a  dit  son  dernier  mot." 


80  SMOKE 

"Vops  dites  tou jours  des  betises,"  giggled  the  lady 
from  Arzamass. 

The  general  looked  dignified. 

"Je  ne  suis  jamais  phis  serieux,  madame,  que  quand 
je  dis  des  betises." 

"Monsieur  Verdier  has  uttered  that  very  phrase  sev- 
eral times  already,"  observed  Irina  in  a  low  voice. 

"De  la  poigne  et  des  formes,"  cried  the  stout  gen- 
eral, "de  la  poigne  surtout.  And  to  translate  into  Rus- 
sian ;  be  civil,  but  don't  spare  your  fists." 

"Ah,  you're  a  rascal,  an  incorrigible  rascal,"  inter- 
posed the  condescending  general.  "Mesdames,  don't 
listen  to  him,  please.  A  barking  dog  does  not  bite. 
He  cares  for  nothing  but  flirtation." 

"That's  not  right,  though,  Boris,"  began  Ratmirov, 
after  exchanging  a  glance  with  his  wife,  "it's  all  very 
well  to  be  mischievous,  but  that's  going  too  far.  Prog- 
ress is  a  phenomenon  of  social  life,  and  this  is  what 
we  must  not  forget;  it's  a  symptom.  It's  what  we 
must  watch." 

"All  right,  I  say,"  observed  the  stout  general,  wrin- 
kling up  his  nose;  "we  all  know  you  are  aiming  at  the 
ministry." 

"Not  at  all  ...  the  ministry  indeed!  But  really 
one  can't  refuse  to  recognize  things." 

Boris  plunged  his  fingers  again  into  his  whiskers, 
and  stared  into  the  air. 

"Social  life  is  very  important,  because  in  the  de- 
velopment of  the  people,  in  the  destinies,  so  to  speak, 
of  the  country " 

"Valerien"  interrupted  Boris  reprovingly,  "il  y  a 
des  dames  id.  I  did  not  expect  this  of  you,  or  do  you 
want  to  get  on  to  a  committee  ?" 

"But  they  are  all  closed  now,  thank  God,"  put  in  the 


SMOKE  81 

irritable  general,  and  he  began  humming  again  "Deux 
gendarmes  un  beau  dinianche." 

Ratmirov  raised  a  cambric  handkerchief  to  his  nose 
and  gracefully  retired  from  the  discussion;  the  con- 
descending general  repeated  "Rascal!  rascal!"  but 
Boris  turned  to  the  lady  who  "grimaced  upon  the  desert 
air"  and  without  lowering  his  voice,  or  a  change  in  the 
expression  of  his  face,  began  to  ply  her  with  questions 
as  to  when  "she  would  reward  his  devotion,"  as 
though  he  were  desperately  in  love  with  her  and  suf- 
fering tortures  on  her  account. 

At  every  moment  during  this  conversation  Litvinov 
felt  more  and  more  ill  at  ease.  His  pride,  his  clean 
plebeian  pride,  was  fairly  in  revolt. 

What  had  he,  the  son  of  a  petty  official,  in  common 
with  these  military  aristocrats  of  Petersburg?  He 
loved  everything  they  hated ;  he  hated  everything  they 
loved ;  he  was  only  too  vividly  conscious  of  it,  he  felt 
it  in  every  part  of  his  being.  Their  jokes  he  thought 
dull,  their  tone  intolerable,  every  gesture  false;  in  the 
very  smoothness  of  their  speeches  he  detected  a  note 
of  revolting  contemptuousness — and  yet  he  was,  as  it 
were,  abashed  before  them,  before  these  creatures, 
these  enemies.  "Ugh!  how  disgusting!  I  am  in  their 
way,  I  am  ridiculous  to  them,"  was  the  thought  that 
kept  revolving  in  his  head.  "Why  am  I  stopping? 
Let  me  escape  at  once,  at  once."  Irina's  presence  could 
not  retain  him;  she,  too,  aroused  melancholy  emotions 
in  him.  He  got  up  from  his  seat  and  began  to  take 
leave. 

"You  are  going  already?"  said  Irina,  but  after  a 
moment's  reflection  she  did  not  press  him  to  stay,  and 
only  extracted  a  promise  from  him  that  he  would  not 
fail  to  come  and  see  her.  General  Ratmirov  took  leave 
of  him  with  the  same  refined  courtesy,  shook  hands 


82  SMOKE 

with  him  and  accompanied  him  to  the  end  of  the  plat- 
form. .  .  .  But  Litvinov  had  scarcely  had  time  to  turn 
round  the  first  bend  in  the  road  when  he  heard  a  gen- 
eral roar  of  laughter  behind  him.  This  laughter  had  no 
reference  to  him,  but  was  occasioned  by  the  long- 
expected  Monsieur  Verdier,  who  suddenly  made  his 
appearance  on  the  platform,  in  a  Tyrolese  hat,  and 
blue  blouse,  riding  a  donkey,  but  the  blood  fairly 
rushed  into  Litvinov's  cheeks,  and  he  felt  intense  bit- 
terness :  his  tightly  compressed  lips  seemed  as  though 
drawn  by  wormwood.  "Despicable,  vulgar  creatures," 
he  muttered,  without  reflecting  that  the  few  minutes 
he  had  spent  in  their  company  had  not  given  him  suf- 
ficient ground  for  such  severe  criticism.  And  this  was 
the  world  into  which  Irina  had  fallen,  Irina,  once  his 
Irina!  In  this  world  she  moved,  and  lived,  and 
reigned ;  for  it,  she  had  sacrificed  her  personal  dignity, 
the  noblest  feelings  of  -her  heart.  ...  It  was  clearly 
as  it  should  be;  it  was  clear  that  she  had  deserved 
no  better  fate!  How  glad  he  was  that  she  had  not 
thought  of  questioning  him  about  his  intentions !  He 
might  have  opened  his  heart  before  "them"  in  "their" 
presence.  .  .  .  "For  nothing  in  the  world!  never!" 
murmured  Litvinov,  inhaling  deep  draughts  of  the 
fresh  air  and  descending  the  road  towards  Baden  al- 
most at  a  run.  He  thought  of  his  betrothed,  his  sweet, 
good,  sacred  Tatyana,  and  how  pure,  how  noble,  how 
true  she  seemed  to  him.  With  what  unmixed  tender- 
ness he  recalled  her  features,  her  words,  her  very  ges- 
tures .  .  .  with  what  impatience  he  looked  forward  to 
her  return. 

The  rapid  exercise  soothed  his  nerves.  Returning 
home  he  sat  down  at  the  table  and  took  up  a  book; 
suddenly  he  let  it  fall,  even  with  a  shudder.  .  .  .  What 
had  happened  to  him?  Nothing  had  happened,  but 


SMOKE  83 

Irina  .  .  .  Irina.  .  .  .  All  at  once  his  meeting  with 
her  seemed  something  marvelous,  strange,  extraor- 
dinary. Was  it  possible?  he  had  met,  he  had  talked 
with  the  same  Irina.  .  .  .  And  why  was  there  no  trace 
in  her  of  that  hateful  worldliness  which  was  so  sharply 
stamped  upon  all  these  others?  Why  did  he  fancy 
that  she  seemed,  as  it  were,  weary,  or  sad,  or  sick  of 
her  position  ?  She  was  in  their  camp,  but  she  was  not 
an  enemy.  And  what  could  have  impelled  her  to  re- 
ceive him  joyfully,  to  invite  him  to  see  her? 

Litvinov  started.  "O  Tanya,  Tanya!"  he  cried  pas- 
sionately, "you  are  my  guardian  angel,  you  only,  my 
good  genius.  I  love  you  only  and  will  love  you  for 
ever.  And  I  will  not  go  to  see  her.  Forget  her  altcn 
gether!  Let  her  amuse  herself  with  her  generals.'' 
Litvinov  set  to  his  book  again. 


XI 

LITVINOV  took  up  his  book  again,  but  he  could  not 
read.  He  went  out  of  the  house,  walked  a  little,  lis- 
tened to  the  music,  glanced  in  at  the  gambling,  re- 
turned again  to  his  room,  and  tried  again  to  read — still 
without  success.  The  time  seemed  to  drag  by  with 
peculiar  dreariness.  Pishtchalkin,  the  well-intentioned 
peaceable  mediator,  came  in  and  sat  with  him  for  three 
hours.  He  talked,  argued,  stated  questions,  and  dis- 
coursed intermittently,  first  of  elevated,  and  then  of 
practical  topics,  and  succeeded  in  diffusing  around  him 
such  an  atmosphere  of  dullness  that  poor  Litvinov 
was  ready  to  cry.  In  raising  dullness — agonizing,  chill- 
ing, helpless,  hopeless  dullness — to  a  fine  art,  Pishtchal- 
kin was  absolutely  unrivaled  even  among  persons  of 
the  highest  morality,  who  are  notoriously  masters  in 
that  line.  The  mere  sight  of  his  well-cut  and  well- 
brushed  head,  his  clear  lifeless  eyes,  his  benevolent 
nose,  produced  an  involuntary  despondency,  and  his 
deliberate,  drowsy,  lazy  tone  seemed  to  have  been 
created  only  to  state  with  conviction  and  lucidity  such 
sententious  truths  as  that  twice  two  makes  four  and 
not  five  or  three,  that  water  is  liquid,  and  benevolence 
laudable ;  that  to  the  private  individual,  no  less  than  to 
the  state,  and  to  the  state  no  less  than  to  the  private 
individual,  credit  is  absolutely  indispensable  for  finan- 
cial operations.  And  with  all  this  he  was  such  an  ex- 
cellent man !  But  such  is  the  sentence  the  fates  have 
passed  on  Russia;  among  us,  good  men  are  dull. 
84 


SMOKE  85 

Pishtchalkin  retreated  at  last ;  he  was  replaced  by  Bin- 
dasov,  who,  without  any  beating  about  the  bush,  asked 
Litvinov  with  great  effrontery  for  a  loan  of  a  hundred 
guldens,  and  the  latter  gave  it  him,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  Bindasov  was  not  only  unattractive,  but  even 
repulsive  to  him,  that  he  knew  for  certain  that  he  would 
never  get  his  money  back  and  was,  besides,  himself  in 
need  of  it.  What  made  him  give  him  the  money 
then,  the  reader  will  inquire.  Who  can  tell !  That  is 
another  Russian  weakness.  Let  the  reader  lay  his  hand 
on  his  heart  and  remember  how  many  acts  in  his  own 
life  have  had  absolutely  no  other  reason.  And  Bin- 
dasov did  not  even  thank  Litvinov ;  he  asked  for  a  glas> 
of  red  Baden  wine,  and  without  wiping  his  lips  de 
parted,  loudly  and  offensively  tramping  with  his  boots, 
And  how  vexed  Litvinov  was  with  himself  already, 
as  he  watched  the  red  nape  of  the  retreating  sharper's 
neck!  Before  evening  he  received  a  letter  from  Tat- 
yana  in  which  she  informed  him  that  as  her  aunt  was 
not  well,  she  could  not  come  to  Baden  for  five  or  six 
days.  This  news  had  a  depressing  influence  on  Lit- 
vinov ;  it  increased  his  vexation,  and  he  went  to  bed 
early  in  a  disagreeable  frame  of  mind.  The  following 
day  turned  out  no  better,  if  not  worse,  than  the  preced- 
ing. From  early  morning  Litvinov's  room  was  filled 
with  his  own  countrymen  ;  Bambaev,  Voroshilov,  Pisht- 
chalkin, the  two  officers,  the  two  Heidelberg  students, 
all  crowded  in  at  once,  and  yet  did  not  go  away  right 
up  till  dinner  time,  though  they  had  soon  said  all  they 
had  to  say  and  were  obviously  bored.  They  simply 
did  not  know  what  to  do  with  themselves,  and  having 
got  into  Litvinov's  lodgings  they  "stuck"  there,  as  they 
say.  First  they  discussed  the  fact  that  Gvibaryov  had 
gone  back  to  Heidelberg,  and  that  they  would  have  to 
go  after  him;  then  they  philosophized  *  little,  and 


86  SMOKE 

touched  on  the  Polish  question ;  then  they  advanced  to 
reflections  on  gambling  and  cocottcs,  and  fell  to  re- 
peating scandalous  anecdotes ;  at  last  the  conversation 
sank  into  a  discussion  of  all  sorts  of  "strong  men"  and 
monsters  of  obesity  and  gluttony.  First,  they  trotted 
out  all  the  ancient  stories  of  Lukin,  of  the  deacon  who 
ate  no  less  than  thirty-three  herrings  for  a  wager,  of 
the  Uhlan  colonel,  Ezyedinov,  renowned  for  his  cor- 
pulence, and  of  the  soldier  who  broke  the  shin-bone 
on  his  own  forehead ;  then  followed  unadulterated  ly- 
ing. Pishtchalkin  himself  related  with  a  yawn  that  he 
knew  a  peasant  woman  in  Little  Russia,  who  at  the 
time  of  her  death  had  proved  to  weigh  half  a  ton  and 
some  pounds,  and  a  landowner  who  had  eaten  three 
geese  and  a  sturgeon  for  luncheon ;  Bambaev  suddenly 
fell  into  an  ecstatic  condition,  and  declared  he  himself 
was  able  to  eat  a  whole  sheep,  "with  seasoning"  of 
course ;  and  Voroshilov  burst  out  with  something  about 
a  comrade,  an  athletic  cadet,  so  grotesque  that  every 
one  was  reduced  to  silence,  and  after  looking  at  each 
other,  they  took  up  their  hats,  and  the  party  broke  up. 
Litvinov,  when  he  was  left  alone,  tried  to  occupy  him- 
self, but  he  felt  just  as  if  his  head  was  full  of  smolder- 
ing soot;  he  could  do  nothing  that  was  of  any  use, 
and  the  evening,  too,  was  wasted.  The  next  morning 
he  was  just  preparing  for  lunch,  when  some  one 
knocked  at  his  door.  "Good  Lord,"  thought  Litvinov, 
"one  of  yesterday's  dear  friends  again,"  and  not  with- 
out some  trepidation  he  pronounced : 

"Herein!" 

The  door  opened  slowly  and  in  walked  Potugin.  Lit- 
vinov was  exceedingly  delighted  to  see  him. 

"This  is  nice !"  he  began,  warmly  shaking  hands  with 
his  unexpected  visitor,  "this  is  good  of  you !  I  should 
certainly  have  looked  you  up  myself,  but  you  would 


SMOKE  87 

not  tell  me  where  you  live.  Sit  down,  please,  put  down 
your  hat.  Sit  down." 

Potugin  made  no  response  to  Litvinov's  warm  wel- 
come, and  remained  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  shifting  from  one  leg  to  the  other;  he  only 
laughed  a  little  and  shook  his  head.  Litvinov's  cordial 
reception  obviously  touched  him,  but  there  was  some 
constraint  in  the  expression  of  his  face. 

"There's  .  .  .  some  little  misunderstanding,"  he  be- 
gan, not  without  hesitation.  "Of  course,  it  would  al- 
ways be  ...  a  pleasure  ...  to  me  ...  but  I  have 
been  sent  .  .  .  especially  to  you." 

"That  is  to  say,  do  you  mean,"  commented  Litvinov 
in  an  injured  voice,  "that  you  would  not  have  come  to 
me  of  your  own  accord?" 

"Oh,  no,  ...  indeed!  But  I  ...  I  should,  per- 
haps, not  have  made  up  my  mind  tc  intrude  on  you  to- 
day, if  I  had  not  been  asked  to  come  to  you.  In  fact, 
I  have  a  message  for  you." 

"From  whom,  may  I  ask?" 

"From  a  person  you  know,  from  Irina  Pavlovna 
Ratmirov.  You  promised  three  days  ago  to  go  and 
see  her  and  you  have  not  been." 

Litvinov  stared  at  Potugin  in  amazement. 

"You  know  Madame  Ratmirov?" 

"As  you  see." 

"And  you  know  her  well?" 

"I  am  to  a  certain  degree  a  friend  of  hers." 

Litvinov  was  silent  for  a  little. 

"Allow  me  to  ask  you,"  he  began  at  last,  "do  you 
know  why  Irina  Pavlovna  wants  to  see  me?" 

Potugin  went  up  to  the  window. 

"To  a  certain  degree  I  do.  She  was,  as  far  as  I  can 
judge,  very  pleased  at  meeting  you, — well, — and  she 
wants  to  renew  your  former  relations." 


88  SMOKE 

"Renew,"  repeated  Litvinov.  "Excuse  my  indiscre- 
tion, but  allow  me  to  question  you  a  little  more.  Do 
you  know  what  was  the  nature  of  those  relations?" 

"Strictly  speaking  ...  no,  I  don't  know.  But  I 
imagine,"  added  Potugin,  turning  suddenly  to  Lit- 
vinov and  looking  affectionately  at  him,  "I  imagine 
that  they  were  of  some  value.  Irina  Pavlovna  spoke 
very  highly  of  you,  and  I  was  obliged  to  promise  her 
I  would  bring  you.  Will  you  come?" 

"When?" 

"Now  .  .  .  at  once." 

Litvinov  merely  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand. 

"Irina  Pavlovna,"  pursued  Potugin,  "supposes  that 
the  .  .  .  how  can  I  express  it  ...  the  environment, 
shall  we  say,  in  which  you  found  her  the  other  day,  was 
not  likely  to  be  particularly  attractive  to  you ;  but  she 
told  me  to  tell  you,  that  the  devil  is  not  so  black  as  he 
is  fancied." 

"Hm.  .  .  .  Does  that  saying  apply  strictly  to  the 
environment?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  and  in  general." 

"Hm.  .  .  .  Well,  and  what  is  your  opinion,  Sozont 
Ivanitch,  of  the  devil?" 

"I  think,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  that  he  is  in  any  case 
not  what  he  is  fancied." 

"Is  he  better?" 

"Whether  better  or  worse  it's  hard  to  say,  but  cer- 
tainly he  is  not  the  same  as  he  is  fancied.  Well,  shall 
we  go?" 

"Sit  here  a  little  first.  I  must  own  that  it  still 
seems  rather  strange  to  me." 

"What  seems  strange,  may  I  make  bold  to  in- 
quire?" 

"In  what  way  can  you  have  become  a  friend  of  Irina 
Pavlovna?" 


SMOKE  89 

Potugin  scanned  himself. 

"With  my  appearance,  and  my  position  in  society,  it 
certainly  does  seem  rather  incredible ;  but  you  know — 
Shakespeare  has  said  already,  There  are  more  things  in 
heaven  and  earth,  Horatio,  etc.'  Life,  too,  is  not  to  be 
trifled  with.  Here  is  a  simile  for  you;  a  tree  stands 
before  you  when  there  is  no  wind ;  in  what  way  can 
a  leaf  on  a  lower  branch  touch  a  leaf  on  an  upper 
branch?  It's  impossible.  But  when  the  storm  rises 
it  is  all  changed  .  .  .  and  the  two  leaves  touch." 

"Aha !    So  there  were  storms  ?" 

"I  should  think  so!  Can  one  live  without  them? 
But  enough  of  philosophy.  It's  time  to  go." 

Litvinov  was  still  hesitating. 

"O  good  Lord!"  cried  Potugin  with  a  comic  face, 
"what  are  young  men  coming  to  nowadays !  A  most 
charming  lady  invites  them  to  see  her,  sends  messen- 
gers after  them  on  purpose,  and  they  raise  difficulties. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  my  dear  sir,  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed.  Here's  your  hat.  Take  it  and  'Vorwarts,' 
as  our  ardent  friends,  the  Germans,  say." 

Litvinov  still  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment,  but  he 
ended  by  taking  his  hat  and  going  out  of  the  room  with 
Potugin. 


XII 


THEY  went  to  one  of  the  best  hotels  in  Baden  and 
asked  for  Madame  Ratmirov.  The  porter  first  inquired 
their  names,  and  then  answered  at  once  that  "die  Fran 
Furstin  ist  zu  House"  and  went  himself  to  conduct 
them  up  the  staircase  and  knock  at  the  door  of  the 
apartment  and  announce  them.  "Die  Frau  Furstin" 
received  them  promptly:  she  was  alone,  her  husband 
had  gone  off  to  Carlsruhe  for  an  interview  with  a  great 
official,  an  influential  personage  who  was  passing 
through  that  town. 

Irina  was  sitting  at  a  small  table,  embroidering  on 
canvas  when  Potugin  and  Litvinov  crossed  the  thres- 
hold. She  quickly  flung  her  embroidery  aside,  pushed 
away  the  little  table  and  got  up;  an  expression  of  genu- 
ine pleasure  overspread  her  face.  She  wore  a  morning 
dress,  high  at  the  neck ;  the  superb  lines  of  her  shoul- 
ders and  arms  could  be  seen  through  the  thin  stuff; 
her  carelessly-coiled  hair  had  come  loose  and  fell  low 
on  her  slender  neck.  Irina  flung  a  swift  glance  at 
Potugin,  murmured  "merci,"  and  holding  out  her  hand 
to  Litvinov  reproached  him  amicably  for  forgetful- 
ness. 

"And  you  such  an  old  friend !"  she  added. 

Litvinov  was  beginning  to  apologize.  "C'est  bien, 
cfest  bien,"  she  assented  hurriedly  and,  taking  his  hat 
from  him,  with  friendly  insistence  made  him  sit  down. 
Potugin,  too,  was  sitting  down,  but  got  up  again  di- 
rectly, and  saying  that  he  had  an  engagement  he  could 
90 


SMOKE  9> 

not  put  off,  and  that  he  would  come  in  again  after 
dinner,  he  proceeded  to  take  leave.  Irina  again  flung 
him  a  rapid  glance,  and  gave  him  a  friendly  nod,  but 
she  did  not  try  to  keep  him,  and  directly  he  had  van- 
ished behind  the  portiere,  she  turned  with  eager  impa- 
tience to  Litvinov. 

"Grigory  Mihalitch,"  she  began,  speaking  Russian  in 
her  soft  musical  voice,  "here  we  are  alone  at  last,  and  I 
can  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  at  our  meeting,  because  it 
...  it  gives  me  a  chance  .  .  ."  (Irina  looked  him 
straight  in  the  face)  "of  asking  your  forgiveness." 

Litvinov  gave  an  involuntary  start.  He  had  not  ex- 
pected so  swift  an  attack.  He  had  not  expected 
she  would  herself  turn  the  conversation  upon  old 
times. 

"Forgiveness  .  .  .  for  what?"  .  .  .  he  muttered. 

Irina  flushed. 

"For  what?  .  .  .  you  know  for  what,"  she  said, 
and  she  turned  slightly  away.  "I  wronged  you,  Grig- 
ory Mihalitch  .  .  .  though,  of  course,  it  was  my  fate" 
(Litvinov  was  reminded  of  her  letter)  "and  I  do  not 
regret  it  ...  it  would  be  in  any  case  too  late;  but, 
meeting  you  so  unexpectedly,  I  said  to  myself  that  we 
absolutely  must  become  friends,  absolutely  .  .  .  and 
I  should  feel  it  deeply,  if  it  did  not  come  about  .  .  . 
and  it  seems  to  me  for  that  we  must  have  an  explana- 
tion, without  putting  it  off,  and  once  for  all,  so  that 
afterwards  there  should  be  no  ...  gene,  no  awk- 
wardness, once  for  all,  Grigory  Mihalitch ;  and  that  you 
must  tell  me  you  forgive  me,  or  else  I  shall  imagine 
you  feel  .  .  .  de  la  rancune.  Voilal  It  is  perhaps 
a  great  piece  of  fatuity  on  my  part,  for  you  have  prob- 
ably forgotten  everything  long,  long  ago,  but  no  mat- 
ter, tell  me,  you  have  forgiven  me." 

Irina   uttered    this    whole   speech   without   taking 


92  SMOKE 

breath,  and  Litvinov  could  see  that  there  were  tears 
shining  in  her  eyes  .  .  .  yes,  actually  tears. 

"Really,  Irina  Pavlovna,"  he  began  hurriedly,  "how 
can  you  beg  my  pardon,  ask  forgiveness  ?  .  .  .  That  is 
all  past  and  buried,  and  I  can  only  feel  astounded  that, 
in  the  midst  of  all  the  splendor  which  surrounds  you, 
you  have  still  preserved  a  recollection  of  the  obscure 
companions  of  your  youth.  .  .  ." 

"Does  it  astound  you?"  said  Irina  softly. 

"It  touches  me,"  Litvinov  went  on,  "because  I  could 
never  have  imagined " 

"You  have  not  told  me  you  have  forgiven  me, 
though,"  interposed  Irina. 

"I  sincerely  rejoice  at  your  happiness,  Irina  Pav- 
lovna. With  my  whole  heart  I  wish  you  all  that  is 
best  on  earth.  .  .  ." 

"And  you  will  not  remember  evil  against  me?" 

"I  will  remember  nothing  but  the  happy  moments 
for  which  I  was  once  indebted  to  you." 

Irina  held  out  both  hands  to  him;  Litvinov  clasped 
them  warnily,  and  did  not  at  once  let  them  go.  .  .  . 
Something  that  long  had  not  been,  secretly  stirred  in 
his  heart  at  that  soft  contact.  Irina  was  again  looking 
straight  into  his  face;  but  this  time  she  was  smiling. 
.  .  .  And  he  for  the  first  time  gazed  directly  and  in- 
tently at  her.  .  .  .  Again  he  recognized  the  features 
once  so  precious,  and  those  deep  eyes,  with  their  mar- 
velous lashes,  and  the  little  mole  on  her  cheek,  and 
the  peculiar  growth  of  her  hair  on  her  forehead,  and 
her  habit  of  somehow  sweetly  and  humorously  curving 
her  lips  and  faintly  twitching  her  eyebrows,  all,  all  he 
recognized.  .  .  .  But  how  beautiful  she  had  grown! 
What  fascination,  what  power  in  her  fresh,  woman's 
body !  And  no  rouge,  no  touching  up,  no  powder,  noth- 
ing false  on  that  fresh  pure  face.  .  .  .  Yes,  this  was  a 


SMOKE  93 

beautiful  woman.  A  mood  of  musing  came  upon  Lit- 
vinov.  .  .  .  He  was  still  looking  at  her,  but  his 
thoughts  were  far  away.  .  .  .  Irina  perceived  it. 

''Well,  that  is  excellent,"  she  said  aloud ;  "now  my 
conscience  is  at  rest  then,  and  I  can  satisfy  my  curios- 
ity." 

"Curiosity,"  repeated  Litvinov,  as  though  puzzled. 

"Yes,  yes.  ...  I  want  above  all  things  to  know 
what  you  have  been  doing  all  this  time,  what  plans  you 
have ;  I  want  to  know  all,  how,  what,  when  .  .  .  all, 
all.  And  you  will  have  to  tell  me  the  truth,  for  I  must 
warn  you,  I  have  not  lost  sight  of  you  ...  so  far  as  I 
could." 

"You  did  not  lose  sight  of  me,  you  .  .  .  there  .  .  . 
in  Petersburg?" 

"In  the  midst  of  the  splendor  which  surrounded  me, 
as  you  expressed  it  just  now.  Positively,  yes,  I  did 
not.  As  for  that  splendor  we  will  talk  about  that 
again ;  but  now  you  must  tell  me,  you  must  tell  me  so 
much,  at  such  length,  no  one  will  disturb  us.  Ah, 
how  delightful  it  will  be,"  added  Irina,  gayly  sitting 
down  and  arranging  herself  at  her  ease  in  an  armchair. 
"Come,  begin." 

"Before  telling  my  story,  I  have  to  thank  you,"  be- 
gan Litvinov. 

"What  for?" 

''For  the  bouquet  of  flowers,  which  made  its  appear- 
ance in  my  room." 

"What  bouquet  ?    I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"What?" 

"I  tell  you  I  know  nothing  about  it.  ...  But  I  am 
waiting.  ...  I  am  waiting  for  your  story.  .  .  .  Ah, 
what  a  good  fellow  that  Potugin  is,  to  have  brought 
you !" 

Litvinov  pricked  up  his  ears. 


94 


SMOKE 


"Have  you  known  this  Mr.  Potugin  long?"  he 
queried. 

"Yes,  a  long  while  .  .  .  but  tell  me  your  story." 

"And  do  you  know  him  well?" 

"Oh,  yes !"  Irina  sighed.  "There  are  special  reasons. 
.  You  have  heard,  of  course,  of  Eliza  Byelsky. 
Who  died,  you  know,  the  year  before  last,  such  a 
dreadful  death?  .  .  .  Ah,  to  be  sure,  I'd  forgotten  you 
don't  know  all  our  scandals.  ...  It  is  well,  it  is  well, 
indeed,  that  you  don't  know  them.  O  quelle  chance! 
at  last,  at  last,  a  man,  a  live  man,  who  knows  nothing 
of  us !  And  to  be  able  to  talk  Russian  with  him,  bad 
Russian  of  course,  but  still  Russian,  not  that  everlast- 
ing mawkish,  sickening  French  patter  of  Peters- 
burg." 

"And  Potugin,  you  say,  was  connected  with " 

"It's  very  painful  for  me  even  to  refer  to  it,"  Irina 
broke  in.  "Eliza  was  my  greatest  friend  at  school,  and 
afterwards  in  Petersburg  we  saw  each  other  contin- 
ually. She  confided  all  her  secrets  to  me,  she  was  very 
unhappy,  she  suffered  much.  Potugin  behaved  splen- 
didly in  the  affair,  with  true  chivalry.  He  sacrificed 
himself.  It  was  only  then  I  learned  to  appreciate  him ! 
But  we  have  drifted  away  again.  I  am  waiting  for 
your  story,  Grigory  Mihalitch." 

"But  my  story  cannot  interest  you  the  least,  Irina 
Pavlovna." 

"That's  not  your  affair." 

"Think,  Irina  Pavlovna,  we  have  not  seen  each  other 
for  ten  years,  ten  whole  years.  How  much  water  has 
flowed  by  since  then." 

"Not  water  only !  not  water  only !"  she  repeated  with 
a  peculiar  bitter  expression;  "that's  just  why  I  want 
to  hear  what  you  are  going  to  tell  me." 

"And  beside  I  really  don't  know  where  to  begin,"' 


SMOKE  95 

"At  the  beginning.  From  the  very  time  when  you 
.  .  .  when  I  went  away  to  Petersburg.  You  left  Mos- 
cow then.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  I  have  never  been  back 
to  Moscow  since !" 

"Really?" 

"It  was  impossible  at  first;  and  afterwards  when  < 
was  married " 

"Have  you  been  married  long?" 

"Four  years." 

"Have  you  no  children?" 

"No,"  she  answered  dryly. 

Litvinov  was  silent  for  a  little. 

"And  did  you  go  on  living  at  that,  what  was  his 
name,  Count  Reisenbach's,  till  your  marriage?" 

Irina  looked  steadily  at  him,  as  though  she  were  try- 
ing to  make  up  her  mind  why  he  asked  that  ques- 
tion. 

"No,"  .  .  .  was  her  answer  at  last. 

"I  suppose,  your  parents.  ...  By  the  way,  I  haven't 
asked  after  them.  Are  they " 

"They  are  both  well." 

"And  living  at  Moscow  as  before  ?" 

"At  Moscow  as  before." 

"And  your  brothers  and  sisters?" 

"They  are  all  right;  I  have  provided  for  all  of 
them." 

"Ah!"  Litvinov  glanced  up  from  under  his  brows 
at  Irina.  "In  reality,  Irina  Pavlovna,  it's  not  I  who 
ought  to  tell  my  story,  but  you,  if  only "  He  sud- 
denly felt  embarrassed  and  stopped. 

Irina  raised  her  hands  to  her  face  and  turned  her 
wedding-ring  round  upon  her  finger. 

"Well?  I  will  not  refuse,"  she  assented  at  last. 
"Some  day  .  .  .  perhaps.  .  .  .  But  first  you  .  .  .  be- 
cause, do  you  see,  though  I  tried  to  follow  you  up,  I 


96  SMOKE 

know  scarcely  anything  of  you ;  while  of  me  ...  well, 
of  me  you  have  heard  enough  certainly.  Haven't  you? 
I  suppose  you  have  heard  of  me,  tell  me?" 

"You,  Irina  Pavlovna,  occupied  too  conspicuous  a 
place  in  the  world,  not  to  be  the  subject  of  talk  .  .  . 
especially  in  the  provinces,  where  I  have  been  and 
where  every  rumor  is  believed." 

"And  do  you  believe  the  rumors?  And  of  what 
kind  were  the  rumors  ?" 

"To  tell  the  truth,  Irina  Pavlovna,  such  rumors 
very  seldom  reach  me.  I  have  led  a  very  solitary 
life." 

"How  so?  why,  you  were  in  the  Crimea,  in  the 
militia?" 

"You  know  that,  too?" 

"As  you  see.    I  tell  you,  you  have  been  watched." 

Again  Litvinov  felt  puzzled. 

"Why  am  I  to  tell  you  what  you  know  without  me?" 
said  Litvinov  in  an  undertone. 

"Why  ...  to  do  what  I  ask  you.  You  see,  I  ask 
you,  Grigory  Mihalitch." 

Litvinov  bowed  his  head  and  began  .  .  .  began  in 
rather  a  confused  fashion  to  recount  in  rough  outline 
to  Irina  his  uninteresting  adventures.  He  often  stopped 
and  looked  inquiringly  at  Irina,  as  though  to  ask 
whether  he  had  told  enough.  But  she  insistently  de- 
manded the  continuation  of  his  narrative  and  pushing 
her  hair  back  behind  her  ears,  her  elbows  on  the  arm 
of  her  chair,  she  seemed  to  be  catching  every  word 
with  strained  attention.  Looking  at  her  from  one  side 
and  following  the  expression  on  her  face,  any  one 
might  perhaps  have  imagined  she  did  not  hear  what 
Litvinov  was  saying  at  all,  but  was  only  deep  in  medita- 
tion. .  .  .  But  it  was  not  of  Litvinov  she  was  medi- 


SMOKE  97 

tating,  though  he  grew  confused  and  red  under  her 
persistent  gaze.  A  whole  life  was  rising  up  before  her, 
a  very  different  one,  not  his  life,  but  her  own. 

Litvinov  did  not  finish  his  story,  but  stopped  short 
under  the  influence  of  an  unpleasant  sense  of  growing 
inner  discomfort.  This  time  Irina  said  nothing  to  him, 
and  did  not  urge  him  to  go  on,  but  pressing  her  open 
hand  to  her  eyes,  as  though  she  were  tired,  she  leaned 
slowly  back  in  her  chair,  and  remained  motionless. 
Litvinov  waited  for  a  little;  then,  reflecting  that  his 
visit  had  already  lasted  more  than  two  hours,  he  was 
stretching  out  his  hand  for  his  hat,  when  suddenly  in  an 
adjoining  room  there  was  the  sound  of  the  rapid  creak 
of  thin  kid  boots,  and  preceded  by  the  same  exquisite 
aristocratic  perfume,  there  entered  Valerian  Vladi- 
mirovitch  Ratmirov. 

Litvinov  rose  and  interchanged  bows  with  the  good- 

1  looking  general,  while  Irina,  with  no  sign  of  haste, 

took  her  hand  from  her  face,  and  looking  coldly  at 

her  husband,  remarked  in  French,   "Ah!  so  you've 

come  back!    But  what  time  is  it?" 

"Nearly  four,  ma  chere  amie,  and  you  not  dressed 
yet — the  princess  will  be  expecting  us,"  answered  the 
general ;  and  with  an  elegant  bend  of  his  tightly-laced 
figure  in  Litvinov's  direction,  he  added  with  the  almost 
effeminate  playfulness  of  intonation  characteristic  of 
him,  "It's  clear  an  agreeable  visitor  has  made  you  for- 
getful of  time." 

The  reader  will  permit  us  at  this  point  to  give  him 
some  information  about  General  Ratmirov.  His  father 
was  the  natural  .  .  .  what  do  you  suppose  ?  You  are 
not  wrong — but  we  didn't  mean  to  say  that  .  .  .  the 
natural  son  of  an  illustrious  personage  of  the  reign  of 
Alexander  I.  and  of  a  pretty  little  French  actress.  The 
illustrious  personage  brought  his  son  forward  in  the 


98  SMOKE 

world,  but  left  him  no  fortune,  and  the  son  himself  (the 
father  of  our  hero)  had  not  time  to  grow  rich ;  he  died 
before  he  had  risen  above  the  rank  of  a  colonel  in  the 
police.  A  year  before  his  death  he  had  married  a 
handsome  young  widow  who  had  happened  to  put  her- 
self under  his  protection.  His  son  by  the  widow, 
Valerian  Alexandrovitch,  having  got  into  the  Corps  of 
Pages  by  favor,  attracted  the  notice  of  the  authorities, 
not  so  much  by  his  success  in  the  sciences,  as  by  his 
fine  bearing,  his  fine  manners,  and  his  good  behavior 
(though  he  had  been  exposed  to  all  that  pupils  in  the 
government  military  schools  were  inevitably  exposed 
to  in  former  days)  and  went  into  the  Guards.  His 
career  was  a  brilliant  one,  thanks  to  the  discreet  gayety 
of  his  disposition,  his  skill  in  dancing,  his  excellent  seat 
on  horseback  when  an  orderly  at  reviews,  and  lastly,  by 
a  kind  of  special  trick  of  deferential  familiarity  with 
his  superiors,  of  tender,  attentive  almost  clinging  sub-* 
servience,  with  a  flavor  of  vague  liberalism,  light  as 
air.  .  .  .  This  liberalism  had  not,  however,  prevented 
him  from  flogging  fifty  peasants  in  a  White  Russian 
village,  where  he  had  been  sent  to  put  down  a  riot.  His 
personal  appearance  was  most  prepossessing  and  sin- 
gularly youthful-looking;  smooth-faced  and  rosy- 
cheeked,  pliant  and  persistent,  he  made  the  most  of  his 
amazing  success  with  women;  ladies  of  the  highest 
rank  and  mature  age  simply  went  out  of  their  senses 
over  him.  Cautious  from  habit,  silent  from  motives  of 
prudence,  General  Ratmirov  moved  constantly  in  the 
highest  society,  like  the  busy  bee  gathering  honey  even 
from  the  least  attractive  flowers — and  without  morals, 
without  information  of  any  kind,  but  with  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  good  at  business;  with  an  insight  into 
men,  and  a  ready  comprehension  of  the  exigencies  of 
the  moment,  and  above  all,  a  never-swerving  desire  for 


SMOKE  99 

his  own  advantage,  he  saw  at  last  all  paths  lying  open 
before  him.  .  .  . 

Litvinov  smiled  constrainedly,  while  Irina  merely 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Well,"  she  said  in  the  same  cold  tone,  "did  you  see 
the  Count?" 

"To  be  sure  I  saw  him.  He  told  me  to  remember 
him  to  you." 

"Ah!  is  he  as  imbecile  as  ever,  that  patron  of 
yours  ?" 

General  Ratmirov  made  no  reply.  He  only  smiled  to 
himself,  as  though  lenient  to  the  over-hastiness  of  a 
woman's  judgment.  With  just  such  a  smile  kindly- 
disposed  grown-up  people  respond  to  the  nonsensical 
whims  of  children. 

"Yes,"  Irina  went  on,  "the  stupidity  of  your  friend 
the  Count  is  too  striking,  even  when  one  has  seen  a 
good  deal  of  the  world." 

"You  sent  me  to  him  yourself,"  muttered  the  gen*. 
eral,  and  turning  to  Litvinov  he  asked  him  in  Russian, 
"Was  he  getting  any  benefit  from  the  Baden  waters?" 

"I  am  in  perfect  health,  I'm  thankful  to  say,"  an- 
swered Litvinov. 

"That's  the  greatest  of  blessings,"  pursued  the  gen- 
eral, with  an  affable  grimace;  "and  indeed  one  doesn't, 
as  a  rule,  come  to  Baden  for  the  waters ;  but  the  waters 
here  are  very  effectual,  je  veux  dire,  efficaces;  and  any 
one  who  suffers,  as  I  do  for  instance,  from  a  nervous 
cough " 

Irina  rose  quickly.  "We  will  see  each  other  again, 
Grigory  Mihalitch,  and  I  hope  soon,"  she  said  in 
French,  contemptuously  cutting  short  her  husband's 
speech,  "but  now  I  must  go  and  dress.  That  old 
princess  is  insufferable  with  her  everlasting  parties  de 
ifoisir,  of  which  nothing  comes  but  boredom." 


ioo  SMOKE 

"You're  hard  on  every  one  to-day,"  muttered  her 
husband,  and  he  slipped  away  into  the  next  room. 

Litvinov  was  turning  towards  the  door.  .  .  .  Irina 
stopped  him. 

"You  have  told  me  everything,"  she  said,  "but  the 
chief  thing  you  concealed." 

"What's  that?" 

"You  are  going  to  be  married,  I'm  told?" 

Litvinov  blushed  up  to  his  ears.  ...  As  a  fact,  he 
had  intentionally  not  referred  to  Tanya;  but  he  felt, 
horribly  vexed,  first,  that  Irina  knew  about  his  mar- 
riage, and,  secondly,  that  she  had,  as  it  were,  convicted 
him  of  a  desire  to  conceal  it  from  her.  He  was  com- 
pletely at  a  loss  what  to  say,  while  Irina  did  not  take 
her  eyes  off  him. 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  be  married,"  he  said  at  last,  and 
at  once  withdrew. 

Ratmirov  came  back  into  the  room. 

"Well,  why  aren't  you  dressed  ?"  he  asked. 

"You  can  go  alone;  my  head  aches." 

"But  the  princess.  .  .  ." 

Irina  scanned  her  husband  from  head  to  foot  in  one 
look,  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and  went  away  to  her 
boudoir. 


XIII 

LITVINOV  felt  much  annoyed  with  himself,  as  though 
he  had  lost  money  at  roulette,  or  failed  to  keep  his 
word.  An  inward  voice  told  him  that  he — on  the  eve 
of  marriage,  a  man  of  sober  sense,  not  a  boy — ought 
not  to  have  given  way  to  the  promptings  of  curiosity, 
nor  the  allurements  of  recollection.  "Much  need  there 
was  to  go!"  he  reflected.  "On  her  side  simply  flirta- 
tion, whim,  caprice.  .  .  .  She's  bored,  she's  sick  of 
everything,  she  clutched  at  me  ...  as  some  one  pam- 
pered with  dainties  will  suddenly  long  for  black  bread 
.  .  .  well,  that's  natural  enough.  .  .  .  But  why  did  I 
go?  Can  I  feel  anything  but  contempt  for  her?" 
This  last  phrase  he  could  not  utter  even  in  thought 
without  an  effort.  .  .  .  "Of  course,  there's  no  kind  of 
danger,  and  never  could  be,"  he  pursued  his  reflections. 
"I  know  whom  I  have  to  deal  with.  But  still  one  ought 
not  to  play  with  fire.  .  .  .  I'll  never  set  my  foot  in 
her  place  again."  Litvinov  dared  not,  or  could  not 
as  yet,  confess  to  himself  how  beautiful  Irina  had 
seemed  to  him,  how  powerfully  she  had  worked  upon 
his  feelings. 

Again  the  day  passed  dully  and  drearily.  At  din- 
ner, Litvinov  chanced  to  sit  beside  a  majestic  bel- 
honmie,  with  dyed  moustaches,  who  said  nothing,  and 
only  panted  and  rolled  his  eyes  .  .  .  but,  being  sud- 
denly taken  with  a  hiccup,  proved  himself  to  be  a  fel- 
low-countryman, by  at  once  exclaiming,  with  feeling, 
in  Russian,  "There,  I  said  I  ought  not  to  eat  melons!" 


102  SMOKE 

In  the  evening,  too,  nothing  happened  to  compensate 
for  a  lost  day;  Bindasov,  before  Litvinov's  very  eyes, 
won  a  sum  four  times  what  he  had  borrowed  from 
him,  but,  far  from  repaying  his  debt,  he  positively 
glared  in  his  face  with  a  menacing  air,  as  though  he 
were  prepared  to  borrow  more  from  him  just  because 
he  had  been  a  witness  of  his  winnings.  The  next 
morning  he  was  again  invaded  by  a  host  of  his  com- 
patriots ;  Litvinov  got  rid  of  them  with  difficulty,  and 
setting  off  to  the  mountains,  he  first  came  across  Irina 
— he  pretended  not  to  recognize  her,  and  passed  quick- 
ly by — and  then  Potugin.  He  was  about  to  begin  a 
conversation  with  Potugin,  but  the  latter  did  not  re- 
spond to  him  readily.  He  was  leading  by  the  hand  a 
smartly  dressed  little  girl,  with  fluffy,  almost  white 
curls,  large  black  eyes,  and  a  pale,  sickly  little  face, 
with  that  peculiar  peremptory  and  impatient  expres- 
sion characteristic  of  spoiled  children.  Litvinov  spent 
two  hours  in  the  mountains,  and  then  went  back  home- 
wards along  the  Lichtenthaler  Alice.  ...  A  lady,  sit- 
ting on  a  bench,  with  a  blue  veil  over  her  face,  got  up 
quickly,  and  came  up  to  him.  .  .  .  He  recognized 
Irina. 

"Why  do  you  avoid  me,  Grigory  Mihalitch?"  she 
said,  in  the  unsteady  voice  of  one  who  is  boiling  over 
within. 

Litvinov  was  taken  aback.  "I  avoid  you,  Irina  Pav- 
lovna  ?" 

"Yes,  you  .  .  .  you " 

Irina  seemed  excited,  almost  angry. 

"You  are  mistaken,  I  assure  you." 

"No,  I  am  not  mistaken.  Do  you  suppose  this 
morning — when  we  met,  I  mean — do  you  suppose  I 
didn't  see  that  you  knew  me?  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  did  not  know  me?  Tell  me." 


SMOKE  103 


"I  really  .  .  .  Irina  Pavlovna- 


"Grigory  Mihalitch,  you're  a  straightforward  man, 
you  have  always  told  the  truth ;  tell  me,  tell  me,  you 
knew  me,  didn't  you?  you  turned  away  on  pur- 
pose?" 

Litvinov  glanced  at  Irina.  Her  eyes  shone  with  a 
strange  light,  while  her  cheeks  and  lips  were  of  a 
deathly  pallor  under  the  thick  net  of  her  veil.  In  the 
expression  of  her  face,  in  the  very  sound  of  her  ab-» 
ruptly  jerked-out  whisper,  there  was  something  so  ir- 
resistibly mournful,  beseeching  .  .  .  Litvinov  could 
not  pretend  any  longer. 

"Yes  ...  I  knew  you,"  he  uttered  not  without  ef- 
fort. 

Irina  slowly  shuddered,  and  slowly  dropped  her 
hands. 

"Why  did  you  not  come  up  to  me?"  she  whispered. 

"Why  .  .  .  why!"  Litvinov  moved  on  one  side, 
away  from  the  path,  Irina  followed  him  in  silence. 
"Why?"  he  repeated  once  more,  and  suddenly  his  face 
was  aflame,  and  he  felt  his  chest  and  throat  choking 
with  a  passion  akin  to  hatred.  "You  .  .  .  you  ask 
such  a  question,  after  all  that  has  passed  between  us? 
Not  now,  of  course,  not  now;  but  there  .  .  .  there 
...  in  Moscow." 

"But,  you  know,  we  decided ;  you  know,  you  prom- 
ised  "  Irina  was  beginning. 

"I  have  promised  nothing!  Pardon  the  harshness 
of  my  expressions,  but  you  ask  for  the  truth — so  think 
for  yourself :  to  what  but  a  caprice — incomprehensible, 
I  confess,  to  me — to  what  but  a  desire  to  try  how 
much  power  you  still  have  over  me,  can  I  attribute 
your  ...  I  don't  know  what  to  call  it  ...  your  per- 
sistence? Our  paths  have  lain  so  far  apart!  I  have 
forgotten  it  all,  I've  lived  through  all  that  suffering 


104  SMOKE 

long  ago,  I've  become  a  different  man,  completely ;  you 
are  married — happy,  at  least,  in  appearance — you  fill 
an  envied  position  in  the  world;  what's  the  object, 
what's  the  use  of  our  meeting?  What  am  I  to  you? 
what  are  you  to  me  ?  We  cannot  even  understand  each 
other,  now ;  there  is  absolutely  nothing  in  common  be- 
tween us,  now,  neither  in  the  past  nor  in  the  present! 
Especially  .  .  .  especially  in  the  past!" 

Litvinov  uttered  all  this  speech  hurriedly,  jerkily, 
without  turning  his  head.  Irina  did  not  stir,  except 
from  time  to  time  she  faintly  stretched  her  hands  out 
to  him.  It  seemed  as  though  she  were  beseeching  him 
to  stop  and  listen  to  her,  while,  at  his  last  words,  she 
slightly  bit  her  lower  lip,  as  though  to  master  the  pain 
of  a  sharp,  rapid  wound. 

"Grigory  Mihalitch,"  she  began  at  last,  in  a  calmer 
voice;  and  she  moved  still  further  away  from  the 
path,  along  which  people  from  time  to  time  passed. 

Litvinov  in  his  turn  followed  her. 

"Grigory  Mihalitch,  believe  me,  if  I  could  imagine 
I  had  one  hair's-breadth  of  power  over  you  left,  I 
would  be  the  first  to  avoid  you.  If  I  have  not  done 
so,  if  I  made  up  my  mind,  in  spite  of  my  ...  of  the 
wrong  I  did  you  in  the  past,  to  renew  my  acquain- 
tance with  you,  it  was  because  .  .  .  because " 

"Because  what?"  asked  Litvinov,  almost  rudely. 

"Because,"  Irina  declared  with  sudden  force — "it's 
too  insufferable,  too  unbearably  stifling  for  me  in  so- 
ciety, in  the  envied  position  you  talk  about;  because 
meeting  you,  a  live  man,  after  all  these  dead  puppets 
— you  have  seen  samples  of  them  three  days  ago,  there 
au  Vieux  Chateau, — I  rejoice  over  you  as  an  oasis  in 
the  desert,  while  you  suspect  me  of  flirting,  and  de- 
spise me  and  repulse  me  on  the  ground  that  I  wronged 
you — as  indeed  I  did — but  far  more  myself!" 


SMOKE  105 

"You  chose  your  lot  yourself,  Irina  Pavlovna,  Litvi- 
nov  rejoined  sullenly,  as  before  not  turning  his  head. 

"I  chose  it  myself,  yes  .  .  .  and  I  don't  complain, 
I  have  no  right  to  complain,"  said  Irina  hurriedly;  she 
seemed  to  derive  a  secret  consolation  from  Litvinov's 
very  harshness.  "I  know  that  you  must  think  ill  of 
me,  and  I  won't  justify  myself;  I  only  want  to  ex- 
plain my  feeling  to  you,  I  want  to  convince  you  I 
am  in  no  flirting  humor  now.  .  .  .  Me  flirting  with 
you !  Why,  there  is  no  sense  in  it  ...  When  I  saw 
you,  all  that  was  good,  that  was  young  in  me,  re- 
vived .  .  .  that  time  when  I  had  not  yet  chosen  my 
lot,  everything  that  lies  behind  in  that  streak  of  bright- 
ness behind  those  ten  years.  .  .  ." 

"Come,  really,  Irina  Pavlovna!  So  far  as  I  am 
aware,  the  brightness  in  your  life  began  precisely  with 
the  time  we  separated.  .  .  ." 

Irina  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips." 

"That's  very  cruel,  what  you  say,  Grigory  Miha- 
litch;  but  I  can't  feel  angry  with  you.  Oh,  no,  that 
was  not  a  bright  time,  it  was  not  for  happiness  I  left 
Moscow ;  I  have  known  not  one  moment,  not  one  in- 
stant of  happiness  .  .  .  believe  me,  whatever  you  have 
been  told.  If  I  were  happy,  could  I  talk  to  you  as  I 
am  talking  now.  ...  I  repeat  to  you,  you  don't  know 
what  these  people  are.  .  .  .  Why,  they  understand 
nothing,  feel  for  nothing ;  they've  no  intelligence  even, 
m  esprit  ni  intelligence,  nothing  but  tact  and  cunning ; 
why,  in  reality,  music  and  poetry  and  art  are  all  equal- 
ly remote  from  them.  .  .  .  You  will  say  that  I  was 
rather  indifferent  to  all  that  myself;  but  not  to  the 
same  degree,  Grigory  Mihalitch  .  .  .  not  to  the  same 
degree!  It's  not  a  woman  of  the  world  before  you 
now,  you  need  only  look  at  me — not  a  society  queen. 
.  .  .  That's  what  they  call  us,  I  believe  .  .  .  but  a 


106  SMOKE 

poor,  poor  creature,  really  deserving  of  pity.  Don't 
wonder  at  my  words.  ...  I  am  beyond  feeling  pride 
now !  I  hold  out  my  hand  to  you  as  a  beggar,  will  you 
understand,  just  as  a  beggar.  ...  I  ask  for  charity," 
she  added  suddenly,  in  an  involuntary,  irrepressible 
outburst,  "I  ask  for  charity,  and  you " 

Her  voice  broke.  Litvinov  raised  his  head  and 
looked  at  Irina;  her  breathing  came  quickly,  her  lips 
were  quivering.  Suddenly  his  heart  beat  fast,  and 
the  feeling  of  hatred  vanished. 

"You  say  that  our  paths  have  lain  apart,"  Irina 
went  on.  "I  know  you  are  about  to  marry  from  in- 
clination, you  have  a  plan  laid  out  for  your  whole  life ; 
yes,  that's  all  so,  but  we  have  not  become  strangers 
to  one  another,  Grigory  Mihalitch;  we  can  still  un- 
derstand each  other.  Or  do  you  imagine  I  have  grown 
altogether  dull — altogther  debased  in  the  mire?  Ah, 
no,  don't  think  that,  please!  Let  me  open  my  heart, 
I  beseech  you — there — even  for  the  sake  of  those  old 
days,  if  you  are  not  willing  to  forget  them.  Do  so, 
that  our  meeting  may  not  have  come  to  pass  in  vain ; 
that  would  be  too  bitter ;  it  would  not  last  long  in  any 
case.  ...  I  don't  know  how  to  say  it  properly,  but 
you  will  understand  me,  because  I  ask  for  little,  so 
little  .  .  .  only  a  little  sympathy,  only  that  you  should 
not  repulse  me,  that  you  should  let  me  open  my 
heart " 

Irina  ceased  speaking,  there  were  tears  in  her  voice. 
She  sighed,  and  timidly,  with  a  kind  of  furtive, 
searching  look,  gazed  at  Litvinov,  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  .  .  . 

Litvinov  slowly  took  the  hand  and  faintly  pressed  it. 

"Let  us  be  friends,"  whispered  Irina. 

"Friends,"  repeated  Litvinov  dreamily. 

"Yes,  friends  .  .  .  or  if  that  is  too  much  to  ask, 


SMOKE  107 

then  let  us  at  least  be  friendly.  .  .  .  Let  us  be  simply  as 
though  nothing  had  happened." 

"As  though  nothing  had  happened,  .  .  .  repeated 
Litvinov  again.  "You  said  just  now,  Irina  Pavlovna, 
that  I  was  unwilling  to  forget  the  old  days.  .  .  .  But 
what  if  I  can't  forget  them?" 

A  blissful  smile  flashed  over  Irina's  face,  and  at 
once  disappeared,  to  be  replaced  by  a  harassed,  almost 
scared  expression. 

"Be  like  me,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  remember  only  what 
was  good  in  them ;  and  most  of  all,  give  me  your  word. 
.  .  .  Your  word  of  honor.  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"Not  to  avoid  me  ...  not  to  hurt  me  for  nothing. 
You  promise  ?  tell  me !" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  will  dismiss  all  evil  thoughts  of  me  from 
your  mind." 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  as  for  understanding  you — I  give  it 
up." 

"There's  no  need  of  that  .  .  .  wait  a  little,  though, 
you  will  understand.  But  you  will  promise?" 

"I  have  said  yes  already." 

"Thanks.  You  see  I  am  used  to  believe  you.  I 
shall  expect  you  to-day,  to-morrow,  I  will  not  go  out 
of  the  house.  And  now  I  must  leave  you.  The  Grand 
Duchess  is  coming  along  the  avenue.  .  .  .  She's  caught 
sight  of  me,  and  I  can't  avoid  going  up  to  speak  to  her. 
.  .  .  Good-by  till  we  meet.  .  .  .  Give  me  your  hand, 
vite,  vite.  Till  we  meet." 

And  warmly  pressing  Litvinov's  hand,  Irina  walked 
towards  a  middle-aged  person  of  dignified  appearance, 
who  was  coming  slowly  along  the  gravel  path,  escorted 
by  two  other  ladies,  and  a  strikingly  handsome  groom 
in  livery. 


io8  SMOKE 

"Eh  bonjour,  chere  Madame,"  said  the  personage, 
while  Irina  courtesied  respectfully  to  her.  "Comment 
alles-vous  aujourd'hui?  Venez  un  peu  avec  moi." 

"Votre  Altesse  a  trop  de  bonte,"  Irina's  insinuating 
voice  was  heard  in  reply. 


XIV 

LITVINOV  let  the  Grand  Duchess  and  all  her  suite  get 
out  of  sight,  and  then  he,  too,  went  along  the  avenue. 
He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  clearly  what  he  was 
feeling;  he  was  conscious  both  of  shame  and  dread, 
while  his  vanity  was  flattered.  The  unexpected  expla- 
nation with  Irina  had  taken  him  utterly  by  surprise; 
her  rapid  burning  words  had  passed  over  him  like  a 
thunder-storm.  "Queer  creatures,  these  society  wom- 
en," he  thought ;  "there's  no  consistency  in  them  . . .  and 
how  perverted  they  are  by  the  surroundings  in  which 
they  go  on  living,  while  they're  conscious  of  its  hide- 
ousness  themselves !"  .  .  .  In  reality  he  was  not  think- 
ing this  at  all,  but  only  mechanically  repeating  these 
hackneyed  phrases,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  ward 
off  other  more  painful  thoughts.  He  felt  that  he  must 
not  think  seriously  just  now,  that  he  would  probably 
have  to  blame  himself,  and  he  moved  with  lagging 
steps,  almost  forcing  himself  to  pay  attention  to  every- 
thing that  happened  to  meet  him.  .  .  .  He  suddenly 
found  himself  before  a  seat,  caught  sight  of  some  one's 
legs  in  front  of  it,  and  looked  upwards  from  them. 
.  .  .  The  legs  belonged  to  a  man,  sitting  on  the  seat, 
and  reading  a  newspaper ;  this  man  turned  out  to  be 
Potugin.  Litvinov  uttered  a  faint  exclamation.  Potu- 
gin  laid  the  paper  down  on  his  knees,  and  looked  at- 
tentively, without  a  smile,  at  Litvinov;  and  Litvinov 
also  attentively,  and  also  without  a  smile  looked  at 
Potugin. 

109 


no  SMOKE 

"May  I  sit  by  you?"  he  asked  at  last 

"By  all  means,  I  shall  be  delighted.  Only  I  warn 
you,  if  you  want  to  have  a  talk  with  me,  you  mustn't 
be  offended  with  me — I'm  in  a  most  misanthropic  hu- 
mor just  now,  and  I  see  everything  in  an  exaggerated- 
ly repulsive  light." 

"That's  no  matter,  Sozont  Ivanitch,"  responded 
Litvinov,  sinking  down  on  the  seat,  "indeed,  it's  par- 
ticularly appropriate.  .  .  .  But  why  has  such  a  mood 
come  over  you?" 

"I  ought  not  by  rights  to  be  ill-humored,"  began 
Potugin.  "I've  just  read  in  the  paper  a  project  for 
judicial  reforms  in  Russia,  and  I  see  with  genuine 
pleasure  that  we've  got  some  sense  at  last,  and  they're 
not  as  usual  on  the  pretext  of  independence,  national- 
ism, or  originality,  proposing  to  tack  a  little  home- 
made tag  of  our  own  on  to  the  clear,  straightforward 
logic  of  Europe ;  but  are  taking  what's  good  from 
abroad  intact.  A  single  adaptation  in  its  application  to 
the  peasants'  sphere  is  enough.  .  .  .  There's  no  doing 
away  with  communal  ownership!  .  .  .  Certainly,  cer- 
tainly, I  ought  not  to  be  ill-humored ;  but  to  my  misfor- 
tune I  chanced  upon  a  Russian  "rough  diamond,"  and 
had  a  talk  with  him,  and  these  rough  diamonds,  these 
self-educated  geniuses,  would  make  me  turn  in  my 
grave !" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  rough  diamond?"  asked 
Litvinov. 

"Why,  there's  a  gentleman  disporting  himself  here, 
who  imagines  he's  a  musical  genius.  'I  have  done 
nothing,  of  course,'  he'll  tell  you.  Tm  a  cipher,  be- 
cause I've  had  no  training,  but  I've  incomparably 
more  melody  and  more  ideas  in  me  than  in  Meyer- 
beer.' In  the  first  place,  I  say :  why  have  you  had  no 
training?  and  secondly,  that,  not  to  talk  of  Meyer- 


SMOKE  in 

beer,  the  humblest  German  flute-player,  modestly 
blowing  his  part  in  the  humblest  German  orchestra, 
has  twenty  times  as  many  ideas  as  all  our  untaught 
geniuses ;  only  the  flute-player  keeps  his  ideas  to  him- 
self, and  doesn't  trot  them  out  with  a  flourish  in  the 
land  of  Mozarts  and  Haydns ;  while  our  friend  the 
rough  diamond  has  only  to  strum  some  little  waltz  or 
song,  and  at  once  you  see  him  with  his  hands  in  his 
trouser  pocket  and  a  sneer  of  contempt  on  his  lips: 
I'm  a  genius,  he  says.  And  in  painting  it's  just  the 
same,  and  in  everything  else.  Oh,  these  natural  gen- 
iuses, how  I  hate  them!  As  if  every  one  didn't  know 
that  it's  only  where  there's  no  real  science  fully  as- 
similated, and  no  real  art,  that  there's  this  flaunting 
affectation  of  them.  Surely  it's  time  to  have  done  with 
this  flaunting,  this  vulgar  twaddle,  together  with  all 
hackneyed  phrases  such  as  'no  one  ever  dies  of  hunger 
in  Russia,'  'nowhere  is  there  such  fast  traveling  as  in 
Russia,'  'we  Russians  could  bury  all  our  enemies  under 
our  hats.'  I'm  for  ever  hearing  of  the  richness  of 
the  Russian  nature,  their  unerring  instinct,  and  of 
Kulibin.  .  .  .  But  what  is  this  richness,  after  all,  gen- 
tlemen? Half-awakened  mutterings  or  else  half-ani- 
mal sagacity.  Instinct,  indeed !  A  fine  boast.  Take 
an  ant  in  a  forest  and  set  it  down  a  mile  from  its  ant- 
hill, it  will  find  its  way  home;  man  can  do  nothing  like 
it;  but  what  of  it?  do  you  suppose  he's  inferior  to  the 
ant?  Instinct,  be  it  ever  so  unerring,  is  unworthy  of 
man;  sense,  simple,  straightforward,  common  sense — 
that's  our  heritage,  our  pride ;  sense  won't  perform  any 
such  tricks,  but  it's  that  that  everything  rests  upon. 
As  for  Kulibin,  who,  without  any  knowledge  of  me- 
chanics, succeeded  in  making  some  very  bad  watches, 
why,  I'd  have  those  watches  set  up  in  the  pillory,  and 
<>ay :  see.  good  people,  this  is  the  way  not  to  do  it. 


112  SMOKE 

Kulibin's  not  to  blame  for  it,  but  his  work's  rubbish. 
To  admire  Telushkin's  boldness  and  cleverness  be- 
cause he  climbed  on  to  the  Admiralty  spire  is  well 
enough ;  why  not  admire  him  ?  But  there's  no  need  to 
shout  that  he's  made  the  German  architects  look  fool- 
ish, that  they're  no  good,  except  at  making  money. 
.  .  .  He's  not  made  them  look  foolish  in  the  least; 
they  had  to  put  a  scaffolding  round  the  spire  after- 
wards, and  repair  it  in  the  usual  way.  For  mercy's 
sake,  never  encourage  the  idea  in  Russia  that  anything 
can  be  done  without  training.  No ;  you  may  have  the 
brain  of  a  Solomon,  but  you  must  study,  study  from 
the  ABC.  Or  else  hold  your  tongue,  and  sit  still, 
and  be  humble !  Phoo !  it  makes  one  hot  all  over !" 

Potugin  took  off  his  hat  and  began  fanning  him- 
self with  his  handkerchief. 

"Russian  art,"  he  began  again.  "Russian  art,  in- 
deed! .  .  .  Russian  impudence  and  conceit,  I  know, 
and  Russian  feebleness,  too,  but  Russian  art,  begging 
your  pardon,  I've  never  come  across.  For  twenty 
years  on  end  they've  been  doing  homage  to  that  bloat- 
ed nonentity,  Bryullov,  and  fancying  that  we  have 
founded  a  school  of  our  own,  and  even  that  it  will 
be  better  than  all  others.  .  .  .  Russian  art,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
ho,  ho!" 

"Excuse  me,  though,  Sozont  Ivanitch,"  remarked 
Litvinov,  "would  you  refuse  to  recognize  Glinka,  too, 
then?" 

Potugin  scratched  his  head. 

"The  exception,  you  know,  only  proves  the  rule, 
but  even  in  that  instance  we  could  not  dispense  with 
bragging.  If  we'd  said,  for  example,  that  Glinka  was 
really  a  remarkable  musician,  who  was  only  prevented 
by  circumstances — outer  and  inner — from  becoming 
the  founder  of  the  Russian  opera,  none  would  have 


SMOKE  113 

disputed  it;  but  no,  that  was  too  much  to  expect! 
They  must  at  once  raise  him  to  the  dignity  of  com- 
mander-in-chief,  of  grand-marshal,  in  the  musical 
world,  and  disparage  other  nations  while  they  were 
about  it ;  they  have  nothing  to  compare  with  him,  they 
declare,  then  quote  you  some  marvelous  home-bred 
genius  whose  compositions  are  nothing  but  a  poor 
imitation  of  second-rate  foreign  composers,  yes,  sec- 
ond-rate ones,  for  they're  the  easiest  to  imitate.  Noth- 
ing to  compare  with  him?  Oh,  poor  benighted  barba- 
rians, for  whom  standards  in  art  are  non-existent,  and 
artists  are  something  of  the  same  species  as  the  strong 
man  Rappo:  there's  a  foreign  prodigy,  they  say,  can 
lift  fifteen  stone  in  one  hand,  but  our  man  can  lift 
thirty!  Nothing  to  compare  with  us,  indeed!  I  will 
venture  to  tell  you  something  I  remember,  and  can't 
get  out  of  my  head.  Last  spring  I  visited  the  Crystal 
Palace  near  London ;  in  that  Palace,  as  you're  aware, 
there's  a  sort  of  exhibition  of  everything  that  has  been 
devised  by  the  ingenuity  of  man — an  encyclopaedia  of 
humanity,  one  might  call  it.  Well,  I  walked  to  and  fro 
among  the  machines  and  implements  and  statues  of 
great  men ;  and  all  the  while  I  thought,  if  it  were  de- 
creed that  some  nation  or  other  should  disappear  irom 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  with  it  everything  that  na- 
tion had  invented,  should  disappear  from  the  Crystal 
Palace,  our  dear  mother,  Holy  Russia,  could  go  and 
hide  herself  in  the  lower  regions,  without  disarrang- 
ing a  single  nail  in  the  place :  everything  might  remain 
undisturbed  where  it  is;  for  even  the  samovar,  the 
woven  bast  shoes,  the  yoke-bridle,  and  the  knout — 
these  are  our  famous  products — were  not  invented  by 
us.  One  could  not  carry  out  the  same  experiment  on 
the  Sandwich  islanders ;  those  islanders  have  made 
some  peculiar  canoes  and  javelins  of  their  own ;  their 


n4  SMOKE 

absence  would  be  noticed  by  visitors.  It's  a  libel! 
it's  too  severe,  you  say  perhaps.  .  .  .  But  I  say,  first, 
I  don't  know  how  to  roar  like  any  sucking  dove;  and 
secondly,  it's  plain  that  it's  not  only  the  devil  no  one 
dares  to  look  straight  in  the  face,  for  no  one  dares  to 
look  straight  at  himself,  and  it's  not  only  children  who 
like  being  soothed  to  sleep.  Our  older  inventions  came 
to  us  from  the  East,  our  later  ones  we've  borrowed, 
and  half  spoiled,  from  the  West,  while  we  still  persist 
in  talking  about  the  independence  of  Russian  art! 
Some  bold  spirits  have  even  discovered  an  original 
Russian  science ;  twice  two  makes  four  with  us  as  else- 
where, but  the  result's  obtained  more  ingeniously,  it 
appears." 

"But  wait  a  minute,  Sozont  Ivanitch,"  cried  Lit- 
vinov.  "Do  wait  a  minute!  You  know  we  send 
something  to  the  universal  exhibitions,  and  doesn't 
Europe  import  something  from  us." 

"Yes,  raw  material,  raw  products.  And  note,  my 
dear  sir :  this  raw  produce  of  ours  is  generally  only 
good  by  virtue  of  other  exceedingly  bad  conditions; 
our  bristles,  for  instance,  are  large  and  strong,  because 
our  pigs  are  poor;  our  hides  are  stout  and  thick  be- 
cause our  cows  are  thin ;  our  tallow's  rich  because  it's 
boiled  down  with  half  the  flesh.  .  .  .  But  why  am  I 
enlarging  on  that  to  you,  though;  you  are  a  student 
of  technology,  to  be  sure,  you  must  know  all  that 
better  than  I  do.  They  talk  to  me  of  our  inventive 
faculty !  The  inventive  faculty  of  the  Russians !  Why 
our  worthy  farmers  complain  bitterly  and  suffer  loss 
because  there's  no  satisfactory  machine  for  drying 
grain  in  existence,  to  save  them  from  the  necessity  of 
putting  their  sheaves  in  ovens,  as  they  did  in  the  days 
of  Rurik;  these  ovens  are  fearfully  wasteful — just  as 
our  bast  shoes  and  our  Russian  mats  are, — and  they 


SMOKE  115 

are  constantly  getting  on  fire.  The  farmers  com-t 
plain,  but  still  there's  no  sign  of  a  drying-machine. 
And  why  is  there  none?  Because  the  German  farmer 
doesn't  need  them;  he  can  thrash  his  wheat  as  it  is, 
so  he  doesn't  bother  to  invent  one,  and  we  ...  are 
not  capable  of  doing  it!  Not  capable — and  that's  all 
about  it !  Try  as  we  may !  From  this  day  forward  I 
declare  whenever  I  come  across  one  of  those  rough 
diamonds,  these  self-taught  geniuses,  I  shall  say :  'Stop 
a  minute,  my  worthy  friend!  Where's  that  drying- 
machine?  let's  have  it!'  But  that's  beyond  them! 
Picking  up  some  old  cast-off  shoe,  dropped  ages  ago 
by  St.  Simon  or  Fourier,  and  sticking  it  on  our 
heads  and  treating  it  as  a  sacred  relic — that's  what 
we're  capable  of;  or  scribbling  an  article  on  the  his- 
torical and  contemporary  significance  of  the  proletariat 
in  the  principal  towns  of  France — that  we  can  do,  too; 
but  I  tried  once,  asking  a  writer  and  political  economist 
of  that  sort — rather  like  your  friend,  Mr.  Voroshilov 
— to  mention  twenty  towns  in  France,  and  what  do 
you  think  came  of  that  ?  Why  the  economist  in  despair 
at  last  mentioned  Mont-Fermeuil  as  one  of  the  French 
towns,  remembering  it  probably  from  some  novel  of 
Paul  de  Kock's.  And  that  reminds  me  of  the  follow- 
ing anecdote.  I  was  one  day  strolling  through  a  wood 
with  a  dog  and  a  gun " 

"Are  you  a  sportsman  then?"  asked  Litvinov. 

"I  shoot  a  little.  I  was  making  my  way  to  a  swamp 
in  search  of  snipe ;  I'd  been  told  of  the  swamp  by  other 
sportsmen.  I  saw  sitting  in  a  clearing  before  a  hut  a 
timber  merchant's  clerk,  as  fresh  and  smooth  as  a 
peeled  nut,  he  was  sitting  there,  smiling  away — what 
at,  I  can't  say.  So  I  asked  him :  'Whereabouts  was  the 
swamp,  and  were  there  many  snipe  in  it?'  'To  be 
sure,  to  be  sure,'  he  sang  out  promptly,  and  with  an 


n6  SMOKE 

expression  of  face  as  though  I'd  given  him  a  ruble; 
'the  swamp's  first-rate,  I'm  thankful  to  say;  and  as 
for  all  kinds  of  wild  fowl, — my  goodness,  they're  to  be 
found  there  in  wonderful  plenty.'  I  set  off,  but  not 
only  found  no  wild  fowl,  the  swamp  itself  had  been 
dry  for  a  long  time.  Now  tell  me,  please,  why  is  the 
Russian  a  liar?  Why  does  the  political  economist 
lie,  and  why  the  lie  about  the  wild  fowl,  too?" 

Litvinov  made  no  answer,  but  only  sighed  sympa- 
thetically. 

"But  turn  the  conversation  with  the  same  political 
economist,"  pursued  Potugin,  "on  the  most  abstruse 
problems  of  social  science,  keeping  to  theory,  without 
facts  .  .  .  ! — he  takes  flight  like  a  bird,  a  perfect 
eagle.  I  did  once  succeed,  though,  in  catching  one  of 
those  birds.  I  used  a  pretty  snare,  though  an  obvious 
one,  as  you  shall  see  if  you  please.  I  was  talking  with 
one  of  our  latter-day  'new  young  men'  about  various 
questions,  as  they  call  them.  Well,  he  got  very  hot,  as 
they  always  do.  Marriage  among  other  things  he 
attacked  with  really  childish  exasperation.  I  brought 
forward  one  argument  after  another  ...  I  might  as 
well  have  talked  to  a  stone  wall !  I  saw  I  should  never 
get  round  him  like  that.  And  then  I  had  a  happy 
thought!  'Allow  me  to  submit  to  you,'  I  began, — one 
must  always  talk  very  respectfully  to  these  'new  young 
men' — 'I  am  really  surprised  at  you,  my  dear  sir ;  you 
are  studying  natural  science,  and  your  attention  has 
never  up  till  now  been  caught  by  the  fact  that  all 
carnivorous  and  predatory  animals — wild  beasts  and 
birds — all  who  have  to  go  out  in  search  of  prey,  and  to 
exert  themselves  to  obtain  animal  food  for  themselves 
and  their  young  .  .  .  and  I  suppose  you  would  in- 
clude man  in  the  category  of  such  animals?'  'Of 
course,  I  should,'  said  the  'new  young  man,'  'man  is 


SMOKE  117 

nothing  but  a  carnivorous  animal.'  'And  predatory?' 
I  added.  'And  predatory,'  he  declared.  'Well  said/ 
I  observed.  'Well,  then  I  am  surprised  you've  never 
noticed  that  such  animals  live  in  monogamy.'  The 
'new  young  man'  started.  'How  so?'  'Why,  it  is  so. 
Think  of  the  lion,  the  wolf,  the  fox,  the  vulture,  the 
kite;  and,  indeed,  would  you  condescend  to  suggest 
how  they  could  do  otherwise.  It's  hard  work  enough 
for  the  two  together  to  get  a  living  for  their  off- 
spring.' My  'new  young  man'  grew  thoughtful. 
'Well,'  says  he,  'in  that  case  the  animal  is  not  a  rule 
for  man.'  Thereupon  I  called  him  an  idealist,  and 
wasn't  he  hurt  at  that!  He  almost  cried.  I  had  to 
comfort  him  by  promising  not  to  tell  of  him  to  his 
friends.  To  deserve  to  be  called  an  idealist  is  no 
laughing  matter !  The,  main  point  in  which  our  latter- 
day  young  people  are  out  in.  their  reckoning  is  this. 
They  fancy  that  the  time  for  the  old,  obscure,  under- 
ground work  is  over,  that  it  was  all  very  well  for 
their  old-fashioned  fathers  to  burrow  like  moles,  but 
that's  too  humiliating  a  part  for  us,  we  will  take  ac- 
tion in  the  light  of  day,  we  will  take  action  .  .  .  Poor 
darlings !  why  your  children  even  won't  take  action ; 
and  don't  you  care  to  go  back  to  burrowing,  burrowing 
underground  again  in  the  old  tracks?" 

A  brief  silence  followed. 

"I  am  of  opinion,  my  dear  sir,"  began  Potugin 
again,  "that  we  are  not  only  indebted  to  civilization 
for  science,  art,  and  law,  but  that  even  the  very  feeling 
for  beauty  and  poetry  is  developed  and  strengthened 
under  the  influence  of  the  same  civilization,  and  that 
the  so-called  popular,  simple,  unconscious  creation  is 
twaddling  and  rubbishy.  Even  in  Homer  there  are 
traces  of  a  refined  and  varied  civilization ;  love  itself  is 
enriched  by  it.  The  Slavophils  would  cheerfully  hang 


n8  SMOKE 

me  for  such  a  heresy,  if  they  were  not  such  chicken- 
hearted  creatures ;  but  I  will  stick  up  for  my  own  ideas 
all  the  same;  and  however  much  they  press  Madame 
Kohanovsky  and  'The  swarm  of  bees  at  rest'  upon 
me, — I  can't  stand  the  odor  of  that  triple  ex  trait  de 
mougik  Russe,  as  I  don't  belong  to  the  highest  society, 
which  finds  it  absolutely  necessary  to  assure  itself 
from  time  to  time  that  it  has  not  turned  quite  French, 
and  for  whose  exclusive  benefit  this  literature  en  cuir 
de  Russie  is  manufactured.  Try  reading  the  raciest, 
most  'popular'  passages  from  the  'Bees'  to  a  common 
peasant — a  real  one ;  he'll  think  you're  repeating  him  a 
new  spell  against  fever  or  drunkenness.  I  repeat, 
without  civilization  there's  not  even  poetry.  If  you 
want  to  get  a  clear  idea  of  the  poetic  ideal  of  the  un- 
civilized Russian,  you  should  turn  up  our  ballads,  our 
legends.  To  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  love  is  always 
presented  as  the  result  of  witchcraft,  of  sorcery,  and 
produced  by  some  philtre,  to  say  nothing  of  our  so- 
called  epic  literature  being  the  only  one  among  all  the 
European  and  Asiatic  literatures — the  only  one,  ob- 
serve, which  does  not  present  any  typical  pair  of  lovers 
— -unless  you  reckon  Vanka-Tanka  as  such;  and  of 
the  Holy  Russian  knight  always  beginning  his  ac- 
quaintance with  his  destined  bride  by  beating  her  'most 
pitilessly'  on  her  white  body,  because  'the  race  of 
women  is  puffed  up' !  all  that  I  pass  over ;  but  I  should 
like  to  call  your  attention  to  the  artistic  form  of  the 
young  hero,  the  jeune  premier,  as  he  was  depicted  by 
the  imagination  of  the  primitive,  uncivilized  Slav. 
Just  fancy  him  a  minute ;  the  jeune  premier  enters ;  a 
cloak  he  has  worked  himself  of  sable,  back-stitched 
along  every  seam,  a  sash  of  seven-fold  silk  girt  close 
about  his  armpits,  his  fingers  hidden  away  under  his 
hanging  sleevelets,  the  collar  of  his  coat  raised  high 


SMOKE  119 

above  his  head,  from  before,  his  rosy  face  no  man  can 
see,  nor,  from  behind,  his  little  white  neck;  his  cap 
is  on  one  ear,  while  on  his  feet  are  boots  of  morocco, 
with  points  as  sharp  as  a  cobbler's  awl,  and  the  heels 
peaked  like  nails.  Round  the  points  an  egg  can  be 
rolled,  and  a  sparrow  can  fly  under  the  heels.  And 
the  young  hero  advances  with  that  peculiar  mincing 
gait  by  means  of  which  our  Alcibiades,  Tchivilo  Plenk- 
ovitch,  produced  such  a  striking,  almost  medical,  effect 
on  old  women  and  young  girls,  the  same  gait  which 
we  see  in  our  loose-limbed  waiters,  that  cream,  that 
flower  of  Russian  dandyism,  that  ne  plus  ultra  of  Rus- 
sian taste.  This  I  maintain  without  joking;  a  sack- 
like  gracefulness,  that's  an  artistic  ideal.  What  do  you 
think,  is  it  a  fine  type  ?  Does  it  present  many  materials 
for  painting,  for  sculpture  ?  And  the  beauty  who  fas- 
cinates the  young  hero,  whose  'face  is  as  red  as  the 
blood  of  the  hare'?  .  .  .  But  I  think  you're  not  lis- 
tening to  me?" 

Litvinov  started.  He  had  not,  in  fact,  heard  what 
Potugin  was  saying;  he  kept  thinking,  persistently 
thinking  of  Irina,  of  his  last  interview  with  her.  .  .  . 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sozont  Ivanitch,"  he  began, 
"but  I'm  going  to  attack  you  again  with  my  former 
question  about  .  .  .  about  Madame  Ratmirov." 

Potugin  folded  up  his  newspaper  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"You  want  to  know  again  how  I  came  to  know 
her?" 

"No,  not  exactly.  I  should  like  to  hear  your  opin- 
ion ...  on  the  part  she  played  in  Petersburg.  What 
was  that  part,  in  reality?" 

"I  really  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,  Grigory 
Mihalitch;  I  was  brought  into  rather  intimate  terms 
with  Madame  Ratmirov  ...  but  quite  accidentally, 


120  SMOKE 

and  not  for  long.  I  never  got  an  insight  into  her 
world,  and  what  took  place  in  it  remained  unknown 
to  me.  There  was  some  gossip  before  me,  but  as 
you  know,  it's  not  only  in  democratic  circles  that  slan- 
der reigns  supreme  among  us.  Besides  I  was  not 
inquisitive.  I  see,  though,"  he  added,  after  a  short 
silence,  "she  interests  you." 

"Yes ;  we  have  twice  talked  together  rather  openly. 
I  ask  myself,  though,  is  she  sincere?" 

Potugin  looked  down.  "When  she  is  carried  away 
by  feeling,  she  is  sincere,  like  all  women  of  strong 
passions.  Pride  too,  sometimes  prevents  her  from  ly- 
ing." 

"Is  she  proud?  I  should  rather  have  supposed  she 
was  capricious." 

"Proud  as  the  devil ;  but  that's  no  harm." 

"I  fancy  she  sometimes  exaggerates.  .  .  ." 

"That's  nothing  either,  she's  sincere  all  the  same. 
Though  after  all,  how  can  you  expect  truth?  The 
best  of  those  society  women  are  rotten  to  the  marrow 
of  their  bones." 

"But,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  if  you  remember,  you  called 
yourself  her  friend.  Didn't  you  drag  me  almost  by 
force  to  go  and  see  her?" 

"What  of  that  ?  she  asked  me  to  get  hold  of  you ; 
and  I  thought,  why  not?  And  I  really  am  her  friend. 
She  has  her  good  qualities :  she's  very  kind,  that  is  to 
say,  generous,  that's  to  say  she  gives  others  what  she 
has  no  sort  of  need  of  herself.  But  of  course  you  must 
know  her  at  least  as  well  as  I  do." 

"I  used  to  know  Irina  Pavlovna  ten  years  ago;  but 
since  then " 

"Ah,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  why  do  you  say  that?  Do 
you  suppose  any  one's  character  changes?  Such  as 
one  is  in  one's  cradle,  such  one  is  still  in  one's  tomb. 


SMOKE  121 

Or  perhaps  it  is"  (here  Potugin  bowed  his  head  stilt 
lower)  "perhaps,  you're  afraid  of  falling  into  her 
clutches?  that's  certainly  .  .  .  But  of  course  one  is 
bound  to  fall  into  some  woman's  clutches." 

Litvinov  gave  a  constrained  laugh.  "You  think 
so?" 

"There's  no  escape.  Man  is  weak,  woman  is  strong, 
opportunity  is  all-powerful,  to  make  up  one's  mind  to 
a  joyless  life  is  hard,  to  forget  one's  self  utterly  is  im- 
possible .  .  .  and  on  one  side  is  beauty  and  sympathy 
and  warmth  and  light, — how  is  one  to  resist  it  ?  Why, 
one  runs  like  a  child  to  its  nurse.  Ah,  well,  after- 
wards to  be  sure  comes  cold  and  darkness  and  empti- 
ness ...  in  due  course.  And  you  end  by  being 
strange  to  everything,  by  losing  comprehension  of 
everything.  At  first  you  don't  understand  how  love  is 
possible ;  afterwards  one  won't  understand  how  life  is 
possible." 

Litvinov  looked  at  Potugin,  and  it  struck  him  that 
he  had  never  yet  met  a  man  more  lonely,  more  deso« 
late  .  .  .  more  unhappy.  This  time  he  was  not  shy, 
he  was  not  stiff;  downcast  and  pale,  his  head  on  his 
breast,  and  his  hands  on  his  knees,  he  sat  without 
moving,  merely  smiling  his  dejected  smile.  Litvinov 
felt  sorry  for  the  poor,  embittered,  eccentric  creature. 

"Irina  Pavlovna  mentioned  among  other  things,"  he 
began  in  a  low  voice,  "a  very  intimate  friend  of  hers, 
whose  name  if  I  remember  was  Byelsky,  or  Dol- 
sky.  .  .  ." 

Potugin  raised  his  mournful  eyes  and  looked  at 
Litvinov. 

"Ah!"  he  commented  thickly.  .  .  .  "She  mentioned 
.  .  .  well,  what  of  it?  It's  time,  though,"  he  added 
with  a  rather  artificial  yawn,  "for  me  to  be  getting 
home — to  dinner.  Good-by." 


122 


SMOKE 


He  jumped  up  from  the  seat  and  made  off  quickly 
before  Litvinov  had  time  to  utter  a  word.  .  .  .  His 
compassion  gave  way  to  annoyance — annoyance  with 
himself,  be  it  understood.  Want  of  consideration  of 
any  kind  was  foreign  to  his  nature ;  he  had  wished  to 
express  his  sympathy  for  Potugin,  and  it  had  resulted 
in  something  like  a  clumsy  insinuation.  With  secret 
dissatisfaction  in  his  heart,  he  went  back  to  his  hotel. 

"Rotten  to  the  marrow  of  her  bones,"  he  thought  a 
little  later.  .  .  .  "but  proud  as  the  devil!  She,  that 
woman  who  is  almost  on  her  knees  to  me,  proud? 
proud  and  not  capricious  ?" 

Litvinov  tried  to  drive  Irina's  image  out  of  his 
head,  but  he  did  not  succeed.  For  this  very  reason  he 
did  not  think  of  his  betrothed;  he  felt  to-day  this 
haunting  image  would  not  give  up  its  place.  He  made 
up  his  mind  to  await  without  further  anxiety  the 
solution  of  all  this  "strange  business" ;  the  solution 
could  not  be  long  in  coming,  and  Litvinov  had  not 
the  slightest  doubt  it  would  turn  out  to  be  most  inno- 
cent and  natural.  So  he  fancied,  but  meanwhile  he 
was  not  only  haunted  by  Irina's  image — every  word 
she  had  uttered  kept  recurring  in  its  turn  to  his  mem- 
ory. 

The  waiter  brought  him  a  note:  it  was  from  the 
same  Irina : 

"If  you  have  nothing  to  do  this  evening,  come  to 
me ;  I  shall  not  be  alone ;  I  shall  have  guests,  and  you 
will  get  a  closer  view  of  our  set,  our  society.  I  want 
you  very  much  to  see  something  of  them;  I  fancy 
they  will  show  themselves  in  all  their  brilliance.  You 
ought  to  know  what  sort  of  atmosphere  I  am  breath- 
ing. Come;  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you,  and  you  will 
not  be  bored.  (Irina  had  spelled  the  Russian  incor- 
rectly here. )  Prove  to  me  that  our  explanation  to-day 


SMOKE  123 

has  made  any  sort  of  misunderstanding  between  us 
impossible  for  ever. — Yours  devotedly,  I." 

Litvinov  put  on  a  frock  coat  and  a  white  tie,  and 
set  off  to  Irina's.  "All  this  is  of  no  importance,"  he 
repeated  mentally  on  the  way,  "as  for  looking  at 
them  .  .  .  why  shouldn't  I  have  a  look  at  them?  It 
will  be  curious."  A  few  days  before,  these  very  people 
had  aroused  a  different  sensation  in  him;  they  had 
aroused  his  indignation. 

He  walked  with  quickened  steps,  his  cap  pulled  down 
over  his  eyes,  and  a  constrained  smile  on  his  lips, 
while  Bambaev,  sitting  before  Weber's  cafe,  and  point- 
ing him  out  from  a  distance  to  Voroshilov  and  Pisht- 
chalkin,  cried  excitedly:  "Do  you  see  that  man? 
He's  a  stone !  he's  a  rock !  he's  a  flint !  1 1" 


XV 

LITVINOV  found  rather  many  guests  at  Irina's.  In 
a  corner  at  a  card-table  were  sitting  three  of  the  gen- 
erals of  the  picnic :  the  stout  one,  the  irascible  one,  and 
the  condescending  one.  They  were  playing  whist  with 
dummy,  and  there  is  no  word  in  the  language  of  man 
to  express  the  solemnity  with  which  they  dealt,  took 
tricks,  led  clubs  and  led  diamonds  .  .  .  there  was  no 
doubt  about  their  being  statesmen  now!  These  gal- 
lant generals  left  to  mere  commoners,  aux  bourgeois, 
the  little  turns  and  phrases  commonly  used  during  play, 
and  uttered  only  the  most  indispensable  syllables ;  the 
stout  general  however  permitted  himself  to  jerk  off 
between  two  deals :  "Ce  satane  as  de  pique!"  Among 
the  visitors  Litvinov  recognized  ladies  who  had  been 
present  at  the  picnic ;  but  there  were  others  there  also 
whom  he  had  not  seen  before.  There  was  one  so  an- 
cient that  it  seemed  every  instant  as  though  she  would 
fall  to  pieces :  she  shrugged  her  bare,  gruesome,  dingy 
gray  shoulders,  and,  covering  her  mouth  with  her 
fan,  leered  languishingly  with  her  absolutely  death- 
like eyes  upon  Ratmirov ;  he  paid  her  much  attention ; 
she  was  held  in  great  honor  in  the  highest  society,  as 
the  last  of  the  Maids  of  Honor  of  the  Empress  Cath- 
erine. At  the  window,  dressed  like  a  shepherdess,  sat 
Countess  S.,  "the  Queen  of  the  Wasps,"  surrounded 
by  young  men.  Among  them  the  celebrated  million- 
aire and  beau  Finikov  was  conspicuous  for  his  super- 
cilious deportment,  his  absolutely  flat  skull,  and  his 
124 


SMOKE  125 

expression  of  soulless  brutality,  worthy  of  a  Khan  of 
Bucharia,  or  a  Roman  Heliogabalus.  Another  lady, 
also  a  countess,  known  by  the  pet  name  of  Lise,  was 
talking  to  a  long-haired,  fair,  and  pale  spiritualistic 
medium.  Beside  them  was  standing  a  gentleman,  also 
pale  and  long-haired,  who  kept  laughing  in  a  mean- 
ing way.  This  gentleman  also  believed  in  spiritualism, 
but  added  to  that  an  interest  in  prophecy,  and,  on  the 
basis  of  the  Apocalypse  and  the  Talmud,  was  in  the 
habit  of  foretelling  all  kinds  of  marvelous  events. 
Not  a  single  one  of  these  events  had  come  to  pass; 
but  he  was  in  no  wise  disturbed  by  that  fact,  and  went 
on  prophesying  as  before.  At  the  piano,  the  musical 
genius  had  installed  himself,  the  rough  diamond,  who 
had  stirred  Potugin  to  such  indignation ;  he  was  strik- 
ing chords  with  a  careless  hand,  d'une  main  distraite, 
and  kept  staring  vaguely  about  him.  Irina  was  sit- 
ting on  a  sofa  between  Prince  Koko  and  Madame  H., 
once  a  celebrated  beauty  and  wit,  who  had  long  ago 
become  a  repulsive  old  crone,  with  the  odor  of  sanctity 
and  evaporated  sin  fulness  about  her.  On  catching 
sight  of  Litvinov,  Irina  blushed  and  got  up,  and  when 
he  went  up  to  her,  she  pressed  his  hand  warmly.  She 
was  wearing  a  dress  of  black  crepon,  relieved  by  a  few 
inconspicuous  gold  ornaments;  her  shoulders  were  a 
dead  white,  while  her  face,  pale,  too,  under  the  mo- 
mentary flood  of  crimson  overspreading  it,  was 
breathing  with  the  triumph  of  beauty,  and  not  of 
beauty  alone;  a  hidden,  almost  ironical  happiness  was 
shining  in  her  half-closed  eyes,  and  quivering  about 
her  lips  and  nostrils.  .  .  . 

Ratmirov  approached  Litvinov  and  after  exchang- 
ing with  him  his  customary  civilities,  unaccompanied 
however  by  his  customary  playfulness,  he  presented 
him  to  two  or  three  ladies :  the  ancient  ruin,  the  Queen 


126  SMOKE 

of  the  Wasps,  Countess  Liza  .  .  .  they  gave  him  a 
rather  gracious  reception.  Litvinov  did  not  belong  to 
their  set;  but  he  was  good-looking,  extremely  so,  in- 
deed, and  the  expressive  features  of  his  youthful  face 
awakened  their  interest.  Only  he  did  not  know  how  to 
fasten  that  interest  upon  himself;  he  was  unaccus- 
tomed to  society  and  was  conscious  of  some  em- 
barrassment, added  to  which  the  stout  general  stared  at 
him  persistently.  "Aha!  lubberly  civilian!  free- 
thinker!" that  fixed  heavy  stare  seemed  to  be  saying: 
"down  on  your  knees  to  us ;  crawl  to  kiss  our  hands !" 
Irina  came  to  Litvinov's  aid.  She  managed  so  adroitly 
that  he  got  into  a  corner  near  the  door,  a  little  behind 
her.  As  she  addressed  him,  she  had  each  time  to  turn 
round  to  him,  and  every  time  he  admired  the  exquisite 
curve  of  her  splendid  neck,  he  drank  in  the  subtle 
fragrance  of  her  hair.  An  expression  of  gratitude, 
deep  and  calm,  never  left  her  face;  he  could  not  help 
seeing  that  gratitude  and  nothing  else  was  what  those 
smiles,  those  glances  expressed,  and  he,  too,  was  all 
aglow  with  the  same  emotion,  and  he  felt  shame,  and 
delight  and  dread  at  once  .  .  .  and  at  the  same  time 
she  seemed  continually  as  though  she  would  ask, 
"Well?  what  do  you  think  of  them?"  With  special 
clearness  Litvinov  heard  this  unspoken  question  when- 
ever any  one  of  the  party  was  guilty  of  some  vulgar 
phrase  or  act,  and  that  occurred  more  than  once  dur- 
ing the  evening.  Once  she  did  not  even  conceal  her 
feelings,  and  laughed  aloud. 

Countess  Liza,  a  lady  of  superstitious  bent,  with  an 
inclination  for  everything  extraordinary,  after  dis- 
coursing to  her  heart's  content  with  the  spiritualist 
upon  Home,  turning  tables,  self-playing  concertinas, 
and  so  on,  wound  up  by  asking  him  whether  there  were 
animals  which  could  be  influenced  by  mesmerism. 


SMOKE  127 

"There  is  one  such  animal,  any  way,"  Prince  Koko 
declared  from  some  way  off.  "You  know  Melvanov- 
sky,  don't  you?  They  put  him  to  sleep  before  me, 
and  didn't  he  snore,  he,  he !" 

"You  are  very  naughty,  mon  prince;  I  am  speaking 
of  real  animals,  je  parle  dcs  betes." 

"Mais  moi  aussi,  madame,  je  parle  d'une  bete.  .  .  ." 

"There  are  such,"  put  in  the  spiritualist;  "for  in- 
stance— crabs;  they  are  very  nervous,  and  are  easily 
thrown  into  a  cataleptic  state." 

The  countess  was  astounded.  "What?  Crabs! 
Really?  Oh,  that's  awfully  interesting!  Now,  that  I 
should  like  to  see,  M'sieu  Luzhin,"  she  added  to  a 
young  man  with  a  face  as  stony  as  a  new  doll's,  and  a 
stony  collar  (he  prided  himself  on  the  fact  that  he  had 
bedewed  the  aforesaid  face  and  collar  with  the  sprays 
of  Niagara  and  the  Nubian  Nile,  though  he  remem- 
bered nothing  of  all  his  travels,  and  cared  for  nothing 
but  Russian  puns  .  .  .).  "M'sieu  Luzhin,  if  you 
would  be  so  good,  do  bring  us  a  crab  quick." 

M'sieu  Luzhin  smirked.  "Quick  must  it  be,  or 
quickly?"  he  queried. 

The  countess  did  not  understand  him.  "Mais  out, 
a  crab,"  she  repeated,  "une  ecrevisse." 

"Eh?  what  is  it?  a  crab?  a  crab?"  the  Countess  S. 
broke  in  harshly.  The  absence  of  M.  Verdier  irritated 
her;  she  could  not  imagine  why  Irina  had  not  invited 
that  most  fascinating  of  Frenchmen.  The  ancient 
ruin,  who  had  long  since  ceased  understanding  any- 
thing— moreover  she  was  completely  deaf — only  shook 
her  head. 

"Oui,  out,  vous  allez  voir.  M'sieu  Luzhin, 
please.  .  .  ." 

The  young  traveler  bowed,  went  out,  and  returned 
quickly.  A  waiter  walked  behind  him,  and  grinning 


^S  SMOKE 

from  ear  to  ear,  carried  in  a  dish,  on  which  a  large 
black  crab  was  to  be  seen. 

"Void,  madame,"  cried  Luzhin ;  "now  we  can  pro- 
ceed to  the  operation  on  cancer.  Ha,  ha,  ha!"  (Rus- 
sians are  always  the  first  to  laugh  at  their  own  wit- 
ticisms.) 

"He,  he,  he!"  Count  Koko  did  his  duty  conde- 
scendingly as  a  good  patriot,  and  patron  of  all  national 
products. 

(We  beg  the  reader  not  to  be  amazed  and  indig- 
nant; who  can  say  confidently  for  himself  that  sitting 
in  the  stalls  of  the  Alexander  Theater,  and  infected  by 
its  atmosphere,  he  has  not  applauded  even  worse 
puns?) 

"Merci,  merci,"  said  the  countess.  "Allans,  allons, 
Monsieur  Fox,  montrez  noiis  fa." 

The  waiter  put  the  dish  down  on  a  little  round  table. 
There  was  a  slight  movement  among  the  guests ;  sev- 
eral heads  were  craned  forward ;  only  the  generals  at 
the  card-table  preserved  the  serene  solemnity  of  their 
pose.  The  spiritualist  ruffled  up  hir  hair,  frowned, 
and,  approaching  the  table,  began  waving  his  hands  in 
the  air;  the  crab  stretched  itself,  backed,  and  raised  its 
claws.  The  spiritualist  repeated  and  quickened  his 
movements ;  the  crab  stretched  itself  as  before. 

"Mais  que  doit-elle  done  faire?"  inquired  the  coun- 
tess. 

"Elle  doa  rester  immobile  et  se  dresser  sur  sa  quiou," 
replied  Mr.  Fox,  with  a  strong  American  accent,  and 
he  brandished  his  fingers  with  convulsive  energy  over 
the  dish ;  but  the  mesmerism  had  no  effect,  the  crab 
continued  to  move.  The  spiritualist  declared  that  he 
was  not  himself,  and  retired  with  an  air  of  displeasure 
from  the  table.  The  countess  began  to  console  him.  by 
^assuring  him  that  similar  failures  occurred  sometimes 


SMOKE  129 

even  with  Mr.  Home.  .  .  .  Prince  Koko  confirmed 
her  words.  The  authority  on  the  Apocalypse  and  the 
Talmud  stealthily  went  up  to  the  table,  and  making 
rapid  but  vigorous  thrusts  with  his  fingers  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  crab,  he  too  tried  his  luck,  but  without  suc- 
cess; no  symptom  of  catalepsy  showed  itself.  Then 
the  waiter  was  called,  and  told  to  take  away  the  crab, 
which  he  accordingly  did,  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  as 
before ;  he  could  be  heard  exploding  outside  the  door. 
.  .  .  There  was  much  laughter  afterwards  in  the 
kitchen  iiber  diese  Russen.  The  self-taught  genius, 
who  had  gone  on  striking  notes  during  the  experi- 
ments with  the  crab,  dwelling  on  melancholy  chords, 
on  the  ground  that  there  was  no  knowing  what  in- 
fluence music  might  have — the  self-taught  genius 
played  his  invariable  waltz,  and,  of  course,  was  deemed 
worthy  of  the  most  flattering  applause.  Pricked  on 
by  rivalry,  Count  H.,  our  incomparable  dilettante  (see 
Chapter  I),  gave  a  little  song  of  his  own  composition, 
cribbed  wholesale  from  Offenbach.  Its  playful  refrain 
to  the  words :  "Quel  (ruff  quel  bceuf?"  set  almost  all 
the  ladies'  heads  swinging  to  right  and  to  left;  one 
went  so  far  as  to  hum  the  tune  lightly,  and  the  ir- 
repressible, inevitable  word,  "Charmant!  charmant!" 
was  fluttering  on  every  one's  lips.  Irina  exchanged  a 
glance  with  Litvinov,  and  again  the  same  secret,  iron- 
ical expression  quivered  about  her  lips.  .  .  .  But  a  lit- 
tle later  it  was  still  more  strongly  marked,  there  was 
even  a  shade  of  malice  in  it,  when  Prince  Koko,  that 
representative  and  champion  of  the  interests  of  the  no- 
bility, thought  fit  to  propound  his  views  to  the  spirit- 
ualist, and,  of  course,  gave  utterance  before  long  to 
his  famous  phrase  about  the  shock  to  the  principle  of 
property,  accompanied  naturally  by  an  attack  on  demo- 
crats. The  spiritualist's  American  blood  was  stirred; 


i3o  SMOKE 

he  began  to  argue.  The  prince,  as  his  habit  was,  at 
once  fell  to  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice;  instead 
of  any  kind  of  argument  he  repeated  incessantly: 
"C'est  absurde!  cela  n'a  pas  le  sens  commun!"  The 
millionaire  Finikov  began  saying  insulting  things,  with- 
out much  heed  to  whom  they  referred ;  the  Talmudist's 
piping  notes  and  even  the  Countess  S.'s  jarring  voice 
could  be  heard.  ...  In  fact,  almost  the  same  incon- 
gruous uproar  arose  as  at  Gubaryov's;  the  only  dif- 
ference was  that  here  there  was  no  beer  nor  tobacco" 
smoke,  and  every  one  was  better  dressed.  Ratmirov 
tried  to  restore  tranquillity  (the  generals  manifested 
their  displeasure,  Boris's  exclamation  could  be  heard, 
"Encore  cette  satanee  politique!"'),  but  his  efforts 
were  not  successful,  and  at  that  point,  a  high  official 
of  the  stealthily  inquisitorial  type,  who  was  present, 
and  undertook  to  present  le  resume  en  peu  de  mots, 
sustained  a  defeat :  in  fact  he  so  hummed  and  hawed, 
so  repeated  himself,  and  was  so  obviously  incapable 
of  listening  to  or  taking  in  the  answers  he  received, 
and  so  unmistakably  failed  to  perceive  himself  what 
precisely  constituted  la  question  that  no  other  result 
could  possibly  have  been  anticipated.  And  then,  too, 
Irina  was  slyly  provoking  the  disputants  and  setting 
them  against  one  another,  constantly  exchanging 
glances  and  slight  signs  with  Litvinov  as  she  did  so. 
.  .  .  But  he  was  sitting  like  one  spellbound,  he  was 
hearing  nothing,  and  waiting  for  nothing  but  for  those 
splendid  eyes  to  sparkle  again,  that  pale,  tender,  mis- 
chievous, exquisite  face  to  flash  upon  him  again.  .  .  . 
It  ended  by  the  ladies  growing  restive,  and  requesting 
that  the  dispute  should  cease.  .  .  .  Ratmirov  en- 
treated the  dilettante  to  sing  his  song  again,  and  the 
self-taught  genius  once  more  played  his  waltz.  .  .  . 
Litvinov  stayed  till  after  midnight,  and  went  away 


SMOKE  131 

later  than  all  the  rest.  The  conversation  had  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  touched  upon  a  number  of  sub- 
jects, studiously  avoiding  anything  of  the  faintest  in- 
terest ;  the  generals,  after  finishing  their  solemn  game, 
solemnly  joined  in  it:  the  influence  of  these  statesmen 
was  at  once  apparent.  The  conversation  turned  upon 
notorieties  of  the  Parisian  demi-monde,  with  whose 
names  and  talents  every  one  seemed  intimately  ac- 
quainted, on  Sardou's  latest  play,  on  a  novel  of 
About's,  on  Patti  in  the  Traviata.  Some  one  pro- 
posed a  game  of  "secretary,"  au  secretaire;  but  it  was 
not  a  success.  The  answers  given  were  pointless,  and 
often  not  free  from  grammatical  mistakes;  the  stout 
general  related  that  he  had  once  in  answer  to  the 
question :  Qu'est-ce  que  I' amour?  replied,  Une  colique 
remontee  au  caur,  and  promptly  went  off  into  his 
wooden  guffaw;  the  ancient  ruin  with  a  mighty  ef- 
fort struck  him  with  her  fan  on  the  arm ;  a  flake 
of  plaster  was  shaken  off  herforehead  by  this  rash  ac- 
tion. The  old  crone  was  beginning  a  reference  to  the 
Slavonic  principalities  and  the  necessity  of  orthodox 
propaganda  on  the  Danube,  but,  meeting  with  no  re- 
sponse, she  subsided  with  a  hiss.  In  reality  they  talked 
more  about  Home  than  anything  else ;  even  the  "Queen 
of  the  Wasps"  described  how  hands  had  once  crept 
about  her,  and  how  she  had  seen  them,  and  put  her 
own  ring  on  one  of  them.  It  was  certainly  a  triumph 
for  Irina :  even  if  Litvinov  had  paid  more  attention  to 
what  was  being  said  around  him,  he  still  could  not  have 
.gleaned  one  single  sincere  saying,  one  single  clever 
thought,  one  single  new  fact  from  all  their  discon- 
nected and  lifeless  babble.  Even  in  their  cries  and 
exclamations,  there  was  no  note  of  real  feeling,  in  their 
slander  no  real  heat.  Only  at  rare  intervals  under  the 
mask  of  assumed  patriotic  indignation,  or  of  assumed 


i32  SMOKE 

contempt  and  indifference,  the  dread  of  possible  losses 
could  be  heard  in  a  plaintive  whimper,  and  a  few 
names,  which  will  not  be  forgotten  by  posterity,  were 
pronounced  with  gnashing  of  teeth.  .  .  .  And  not  a 
drop  of  living  water  under  all  this  noise  and  wrangle ! 
What  stale,  what  unprofitable  nonsense,  what  wretched 
trivialities  were  absorbing  all  these  heads  and  hearts, 
and  not  for  that  one  evening,  not  in  society  only,  but 
at  home  too,  every  hour  and  every  day,  in  all  the 
depth  and  breadth  of  their  existence!  And  what  ig- 
norance, when  all  is  said !  What  lack  of  understand- 
ing of  all  on  which  human  life  is  built,  all  by  which 
life  is  made  beautiful! 

On  parting  from  Litvinov,  Irina  again  pressed  his 
hand  and  whispered  significantly,  "Well?  Are  you 
pleased?  Have  you  seen  enough?  Do  you  like  it?" 
He  made  her  no  reply,  but  merely  bowed  low  in  si- 
lence. 

Left  alone  with  her  husband,  Irina  was  just  going 
to  her  bedroom.  ...  He  stopped  her. 

"Je  vous  ai  beaucoup  admiree  ce  soir,  madame,"  he 
observed,  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  leaning  against  the 
mantelpiece,  "vous  vous  etes  parfaitement  moquee  de 
nous  tous." 

"Pas  plus  cette  fois-ci  que  les  autres,"  she  answered 
indifferently. 

"How  do  you  mean  me  to  understand  you?"  asked 
Ratmirov. 

"As  you  like." 

"Hm.  C'est  clair."  Ratmirov  warily,  like  a  cat, 
knocked  off  the  ash  of  the  cigarette  with  the  tip  of  the 
long  nail  of  his  little  finger.  "Oh,  by  the  way !  This 
new  friend  of  yours — what  the  dickens  is  his  name? — • 
Mr.  Litvinov— -doubtless  enjoys  the  reputation  of  a 
very  clever  man." 


SMOKE  133 

At  the  name  of  Litvinov,  Irina  turned  quickly 
round. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  say  ?" 

The  general  smiled. 

"He  keeps  very  quiet  .  .  .  one  can  see  he's  afraid  of 
compromising  himself." 

Irina,  too,  smiled !  it  was  a  very  different  smile  from 
her  husband's. 

"Better  keep  quiet  than  talk  ...  as  some  people 
talk." 

"Attrape!"  answered  Ratmirov  with  feigned  sub- 
missiveness.  "Joking  apart,  he  has  a  very  interesting 
face.  Such  a  ...  concentrated  expression  .  .  .  and 
his  whole  bearing.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  ."  The  general 
straightened  his  cravat,  and  bending  his  head  stared  at 
his  own  moustache.  "He's  a  republican,  I  imagine,  of 
the  same  sort  as  your  other  friend,  Mr.  Potugin ;  that'll 
another  of  your  clever  fellows  who  are  dumb." 

Irina's  brows  were  slowly  raised  above  her  wide 
open  clear  eyes,  while  her  lips  were  tightly  pressed  to- 
gether and  faintly  curved. 

"What's  your  object  in  saying  that,  Valerian  Vladi- 
miritch,"  she  remarked,  as  though  sympathetically. 
"You  are  wasting  your  arrows  on  the  empty  air.  .  .  . 
We  are  not  in  Russia,  and  there  is  no  one  to  hear 
you." 

Ratmirov  was  stung. 

"That's  not  merely  my  opinion,  Irina  Pavlovna," 
he  began  in  a  voice  suddenly  guttural ;  "other  people, 
too,  notice  that  that  gentleman  has  the  air  of  a  con- 
spirator." 

"Really?  who  are  these  other  people?" 

"Well,  Boris  for  instance " 

"What?  Was  it  necessary  for  him  too  to  express 
his  opinion?" 


i34  SMOKE 

Irina  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  though  shrinking 
from  the  cold,  and  slowly  passed  the  tips  of  her  fingers 
over  them. 

"Him  .  .  .  yes,  him.  Allow  me  to  remark,  Irina 
Pavlovna,  that  you  seem  angry;  and  you  know  if  one 
is  angry " 

"Am  I  angry?    Oh,  what  for?" 

"I  don't  know ;  possibly  you  have  been  disagreeably 
affected  by  the  observation  I  permitted  myself  to  make 
in  reference  to " 

Ratmirov  stammered. 

"In  reference  to?"  Irina  repeated  interrogatively. 
"Ah,  if  you  please,  no  irony,  and  make  haste.  I'm 
tired  and  sleepy." 

She  took  a  candle  from  the  table.     "In  reference 

"Well,  in  reference  to  this  same  Mr.  Litvinov;  since 
there's  no  doubt  now  that  you  take  a  great  interest  in 
him." 

Irina  lifted  the  hand  in  which  she  was  holding  the 
candlestick,  till  the  flame  was  brought  on  a  level  with 
her  husband's  face,  and  attentively,  almost  with  curios- 
ity, looking  him  straight  in  the  face,  she  suddenly  burst 
into  laughter. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Ratmirov  scowling. 

Irina  went  on  laughing. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  repeated,  and  he  stamped 
his  foot. 

He  felt  insulted,  wounded,  and  at  the  same  time 
against  his  will  he  was  impressed  by  the  beauty  of  this 
woman,  standing  so  lightly  and  boldly  before  him  .  .  . 
she  was  tormenting  him.  He  saw  everything,  all  her 
charms — even  the  pink  reflection  of  the  delicate  nails 
on  her  slender  finger-tips,  as  they  tightly  clasped  the 
dark  bronze  of  the  heavy  candlestick — even  that  did 


SMOKE  135 

not  escape  him  .  .  .  while  the  insult  cut  deeper  and 
deeper  into  his  heart.  And  still  Irina  laughed. 

"What?  You?  You  jealous?"  she  brought  out  at  last, 
and  turning  her  back  on  her  husband  she  went  out  of 
the  room.  "He's  jealous !"  he  heard  outside  the  door, 
and  again  came  the  sound  of  her  laugh. 

Ratmirov  looked  moodily  after  his  wife;  he  could 
not  even  then  help  noticing  the  bewitching  grace  of 
her  figure,  her  movements,  and  with  a  violent  blow, 
crushing  the  cigarette  on  the  marble  slab  of  the  mantel- 
piece, he  flung  ib  to  a  distance.  His  cheeks  had  sud- 
denly turned  white,  a  spasm  passed  over  the  lower  half 
of  his  face,  and  with  a  dull  animal  stare  his  eyes 
strayed  about  the  floor,  as  though  in  search  of  some- 
thing. .  .  .  Every  semblance  of  refinement  had  van- 
ished from  his  face.  Such  an  expression  it  must  have 
worn  when  he  was  flogging  the  White  Russian  peas- 
ants. 

Litvinov  had  gone  home  to  his  rooms,  and  sitting 
down  to  the  table  he  had  buried  his  head  in  both 
hands,  and  remained  a  long  while  without  stirring. 
He  got  up  at  last,  opened  a  box,  and  taking  out  a 
pocket-book,  he  drew  out  of  an  inner  pocket  a  photo- 
graph of  Tatyana.  Her  face  gazed  out  mournfully  at 
him,  looking  ugly  and  old,  as  photographs  usually  do. 
Litvinov's  betrothed  was  a  girl  of  Great  Russian  blood, 
a  blonde,  rather  plump,  and  with  the  features  of  her 
face  rather  heavy,  but  with  a  wonderful  expression  of 
kindness  and  goodness  in  her  intelligent,  clear  brown 
eyes,  with  a  serene,  white  brow,  on  which  it  seemed  as 
though  a  sunbeam  always  rested.  For  a  long  time 
Litvinov  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  the  photograph, 
then  he  pushed  it  gently  away  and  again  clutched  his 
head  in  both  hands.  "All  is  at  an  end!"  he  whis- 
pered at  last,  "Irina !  Irina !" 


136  SMOKE 

Only  now,  only  at  that  instant,  he  realized  that  he 
was  irrevocably,  senselessly,  in  love  with  her,  that  he 
had  loved  her  since  the  very  day  of  that  first  meeting 
with  her  at  the  Old  Castle,  that  he  had  never  ceased 
to  love  her.  And  yet  how  astounded,  how  incredulous, 
how  scornful,  he  would  have  been,  had  he  been  told  so 
a  few  hours  back ! 

"But  Tanya,  Tanya,  my  God!  Tanya!  Tanya!"  he 
repeated  in  contrition ;  while  Irina's  shape  fairly  rose 
before  his  eyes  in  her  black  almost  funereal  garb,  with 
the  radiant  calm  of  victory  on  her  marble  white  face. 


XVI 

LITVINOV  did  not  sleep  all  night,  and  did  not  un- 
dress. He  was  very  miserable.  As  an  honest  and 
straightforward  man,  he  realized  the  force  of  obliga- 
tions, the  sacredness  of  duty,  and  would  have  been 
ashamed  of  any  double  dealing  with  himself,  his  weak- 
ness, his  fault.  At  first  he  was  overcome  by  apathy; 
it  was  long  before  he  could  throw  off  the  gloomy  bur- 
den of  a  single  half-conscious,  obscure  sensation ;  then 
terror  took  possession  of  him  at  the  thought  that  the 
future,  his  almost  conquered  future,  had  slipped  back 
into  the  darkness,  that  his  home,  the  solidly-built  home 
he  had  only  just  raised,  was  suddenly  tottering  about 
him.  .  .  . 

He  began  reproaching  himself  without  mercy,  but  at 
once  checked  his  own  vehemence.  "What  feebleness !" 
he  thought.  "It's  no  time  for  self-reproach  and  cow- 
ardice ;  now  I  must  act.  Tanya  is  my  betrothed,  she 
has  faith  in  my  love,  my  honor,  we  are  bound  together 
for  life,  and  cannot,  must  not,  be  put  asunder."  He 
vividly  pictured  to  himself  all  Tanya's  qualities,  men- 
tally he  picked  them  out  and  reckoned  them  up ;  he  was 
trying  to  call  up  feeling  and  tenderness  in  himself. 
"One  thing's  left  for  me,"  he  thought  again,  "to  run 
away,  to  run  away  directly,  without  waiting  for  her 
arrival,  to  hasten  to  meet  her ;  whether  I  suffer,  wheth- 
er I  am  wretched  with  Tanya — that's  not  likely — but 
in  any  case  to  think  of  that,  to  take  that  into  considera- 
tion is  useless ;  I  must  do  my  duty,  if  I  die  for  it!  But 
you  have  no  right  to  deceive  her,"  whispered  another 


138  SMOKE 

voice  within  him.  "You  have  no  right  to  hide  from 
her  the  change  in  your  feelings ;  it  may  be  that  when 
she  knows  you  love  another  woman,  she  will  not  be 
willing  to  become  your  wife?  Rubbish!  rubbish!"  he 
answered,  "that's  all  sophistry,  shameful,  double-deal- 
ing, deceitful  conscientiousness ;  I  have  no  right  not  to 
keep  my  word,  that's  the  thing.  Well,  so  be  it.  ... 
Then  I  must  go  away  from  here,  without  seeing  the 
other.  .  .  ." 

But  at  that  point  Litvinov's  heart  throbbed  with 
anguish,  he  turned  cold,  physically  cold,  a  momentary 
shiver  passed  over  him,  his  teeth  chattered  weakly.  He 
stretched  and  yawned,  as  though  he  were  in  a  fever. 
Without  dwelling  longer  on  his  last  thought,  choking 
back  that  thought,  turning  away  from  it,  he  set  him- 
self to  marveling  and  wondering  in  perplexity  how  he 
could  again  .  .  .  again  love  that  corrupt  worldly 
creature,  all  of  whose  surroundings  were  so  hateful,  so 
repulsive  to  him.  He  tried  to  put  to  himself  the  ques- 
tion: "What  nonsense,  do  you  really  love  her?"  and 
could  only  wring  his  hands  in  despair.  He  was  still 
marveling  and  wondering,  and  suddenly  there  rose  up 
before  his  eyes,  as  though  from  a  soft  fragrant  mist, 
a  seductive  shape,  shining  eyelashes  were  lifted,  and 
softly  and  irresistibly  the  marvelous  eyes  pierced  him 
to  the  heart  and  a  voice  was  singing  with  sweetness 
in  his  ears,  and  resplendent  shoulders,  the  shoulders  of 
a  young  queen,  were  breathing  with  voluptuous  fresh- 
ness and  warmth.  .  .  . 

Towards  morning  a  determination  was  at  last  fully 
formed  in  Litvinov's  mind.  He  decided  to  set  off  that 
day  to  meet  Tatyana,  and  seeing  Irina  for  the  last 
time,  to  tell  her,  since  there  was  nothing  else  for  it, 
the  whole  truth,  and  to  part  from  her  for  ever. 


SMOKE  139 

He  set  in  order  and  packed  his  things,  waited  till 
twelve  o'clock,  and  started  to  go  to  her.  But  at  the 
sight  of  her  half -curtained  windows  Litvinov's  heart 
fairly  failed  him  ...  he  could  not  summon  up  cour- 
age to  enter  the  hotel.  He  walked  once  or  twice  up 
and  down  Lichtenthaler  Alice.  "A  very  good  day  to 
Mr.  Litvinov !"  he  suddenly  heard  an  ironical  voice  call 
from  the  top  of  a  swiftly-moving  "dogcart."  Litvinov 
raised  his  eyes  and  saw  General  Ratmirov  sitting  be- 
side Prince  M.,  a  well-known  sportsman  and  fancier  of 
English  carriages  and  horses.  The  prince  was  driving, 
the  general  was  leaning  over  on  one  side,  grinning, 
while  he  lifted  his  hat  high  above  his  head.  Litvinov 
bowed  to  him,  and  at  the  same  instant,  as  though  he 
were  obeying  a  secret  command,  he  set  off  at  a  run 
towards  Irina's. 

She  was  at  home.  He  sent  up  his  name ;  he  was  at 
once  received.  When  he  went  in,  she  was  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  She  was  wearing  a  morning 
blouse  with  wide  open  sleeves;  her  face,  pale  as  the 
day  before,  but  not  fresh  as  it  had  been  then,  ex- 
pressed weariness;  the  languid  smile  with  which  she 
welcomed  her  visitor  emphasized  that  expression  even 
more  clearly.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  in  a 
friendly  way,  but  absent-mindedly. 

"Thanks  for  corning,"  she  began  in  a  plaintive  voice, 
and  she  sank  into  a  low  chair.  "I  am  not  very  well 
this  morning;  I  spent  a  bad  night.  Well,  what  have 
you  to  say  about  last  night?  Wasn't  I  right?" 

Litvinov  sat  down. 

"I  have  come  to  you,  Irina  Pavlovna,"  he  began. 

She  instantly  sat  up  and  turned  round;  her  eyes 
simply  fastened  upon  Litvinov. 

"What  is  it,"  she  cried.  "You're  pale  as  death, 
you're  ill.  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?" 


I4o  SMOKE 

Litvinov  was  confused. 

"With  me,  Irina  Pavlovna?" 

"Have  you  had  bad  news?  Some  misfortune  has 
happened,  tell  me,  tell  me " 

Litvinov  in  his  turn  looked  at  Irina. 

"I  have  had  no  bad  news,"  he  brought  out  not  with- 
out effort,  "but  a  misfortune  has  certainly  happened,  a 
great  misfortune  .  .  .  and  it  has  brought  me  to  you." 

"A  misfortune  ?    What  is  it  ?" 

"Why  .  .  .  that " 

Litvinov  tried  to  go  on  ...  and  could  not.  He 
only  pinched  his  hands  together  so  that  his  fingers 
cracked.  Irina  was  bending  forward  and  seemed 
turned  to  stone. 

"Oh!  I  love  you!"  broke  at  last  with  a  low  groan 
from  Litvinov's  breast,  and  he  turned  away,  as  though 
he  would  hide  his  face. 

"What?  Grigory  Mihalitch,  you"  .  .  .  Irina,  too, 
could  not  finish  her  sentence,  and  leaning  back  in  her 
chair,  she  put  both  her  hands  to  her  eyes.  "You  .  .  . 
love  me?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  yes,"  he  repeated  with  bitter- 
ness, turning  his  head  further  and  further  away. 

Everything  was  silent  in  the  room ;  a  butterfly  that 
had  flown  in  was  fluttering  its  wings  and  struggling 
between  the  curtain  and  the  window. 

The  first  to  speak  was  Litvinov. 

"That,  Irina  Pavlovna,"  he  began,  "that  is  the  mis- 
fortune, which  .  .  .  has  befallen  me,  which  I  ought  to 
have  foreseen  and  avoided,  if  I  had  not  now  just  as  in 
the  Moscow  days  been  carried  off  my  feet  at  once. 
It  seems  fate  is  pleased  to  force  me  once  again  through 
you  to  suffer  tortures,  which  one  would  have  thought 
should  not  be  repeated  again.  ...  It  was  not  without 
cause  I  struggled.  ...  I  tried  to  struggle;  but  of 


SMOKE  141 

course  there's  no  escaping  Okie's  fate.  And  I  tell  you, 
all  this  to  put  an  end  at  once  to  this  .  .  .  this  tragic 
farce,"  he  added  with  a  fresh  outburst  of  shame  and 
bitterness. 

Litvinov  was  silent  again ;  the  butterfly  was  strug- 
gling and  fluttering  as  before.  Irina  did  not  take  her 
hands  from  her  face. 

"And  you  are  not  mistaken?"  her  whisper  sounded 
from  under  those  white,  bloodless-looking  hands. 

"I  am  not  mistaken,"  answered  Litvinov  in  a  color- 
less voice.  "I  love  you,  as  I  have  never  loved  any  one 
but  you.  I  am  not  going  to  reproach  you ;  that  would 
be  too  foolish ;  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  that  perhaps 
nothing  of  all  this  would  have  happened  if  you  your- 
self had  behaved  differently  with  me.  ...  Of  course, 
I  alone  am  to  blame,  my  self-confidence  has  been  my 
ruin;  I  am  deservedly  punished,  and  you  could  not 
have  anticipated  it.  Of  course  you  did  not  consider 
that  it  would  have  been  far  less  dangerous  for  me  if 
you  had  not  been  so  keenly  alive  to  your  wrong  .  .  . 
your  supposed  wrong  to  me ;  and  had  not  wished  to 
make  up  for  it  ...  but  what's  done  can't  be  undone. 
I  only  wanted  to  make  clear  my  position  to  you ;  it's 
hard  enough  as  it  is.  ...  But  at  least  there  will  be, 
as  you  say,  no  misunderstanding,  while  the  openness 
of  my  confession  will  soften,  I  hope,  the  feeling  of 
offense  which  you  cannot  but  feel." 

Litvinov  spoke  without  raising  his  eyes,  but  even  if 
he  had  glanced  at  Irina,  he  could  not  have  seen  what 
was  passing  in  her  face,  as  she  still  as  before  kept  her 
hands  over  her  eyes.  But  what  was  passing  over  her 
face  meanwhile  would  probably  have  astounded  him; 
both  alarm  and  delight  were  apparent  on  it,  and  a  kind 
of  blissful  helplessness  and  agitation;  her  eyes  hardly 
glimmered  under  their  overhanging  lids,  and  her  slow, 


142  SMOKE 

broken  breathing  was  chill  upon  her  lips,  that  were 
parted  as  though  with  thirst.  .  .  . 

Litvinov  was  silent,  waiting  for  a  response,  some 
sound.  .  .  .  Nothing! 

"There  is  one  thing  left  for  me,"  he  began  again, 
"to  go  away;  I  have  come  to  say  good-by  to 
you." 

Irina  slowly  dropped  her  hands  on  to  her  knees. 

"But  I  remember,  Grigory  Mihalitch,"  she  began; 
"that  .  .  .  that  person  of  whom  you  spoke  to  me,  she 
was  to  have  come  here  ?  You  are  expecting  her  ?" 

"Yes;  but  I  shall  write  to  her  .  .  .  she  will  stop 
somewhere  on  the  way  ...  at  Heidelberg,  for  in- 
stance." 

"Ah!  Heidelberg.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  It's  nice  there. 
.  .  .  But  all  this  must  upset  your  plans.  Are  you  per- 
fectly certain,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  that  you  are  not 
exaggerating,  et  que  ce  n'est  pas  une  fausse  alarme?" 

Irina  spoke  softly,  almost  coldly,  with  short  pauses, 
looking  away  towards  the  window.  Litvinov  made  no 
answer  to  her  last  question. 

"Only,  why  did  you  talk  of  offense?"  she  went  on. 
"I  am  not  offended  ...  oh,  no!  and  if  one  or  other 
of  us  is  to  blame,  in  any  case  it's  not  you ;  not  you 
alone.  .  .  .  Remember  our  last  conversations,  and  you 
will  be  convinced  that  it's  not  you  who  are  to  blame  ?" 

"I  have  never  doubted  your  magnanimity,"  Lit- 
vinov muttered  between  his  teeth,  "but  I  should  like  to 
know,  do  you  approve  of  my  intention?" 

"To  go  away  ?" 

"Yes." 

Irina  continued  to  look  away. 

"At  the  first  moment,  your  intention  struck  me  as 
premature  .  .  .  but  now  I  have  thought  over  what 
you  have  said  .  .  .  and  if  you  are  really  not  mistaken, 


SMOKE 


143 


then  I  suppose  that  you  ought  to  go  away.  It  will  be 
better  so  ...  better  for  us  both." 

Irina's  voice  had  grown  lower  and  lower,  and  her 
words,  too,  came  more  and  more  slowly. 

"General  Ratmirov,  certainly,  might  notice,"  Lit- 
vinov  was  beginning.  .  .  . 

Irina's  eyes  dropped  again,  and  something  strange 
quivered  about  her  lips,  quivered  and  died  away. 

"No;  you  did  not  understand  me,"  she  interrupted 
him.  "I  was  not  thinking  of  my  husband.  Why 
should  I  ?  And  there  is  nothing  to  notice.  But  I  re- 
peat, separation  is  necessary  for  us  both." 

Litvinov  picked  up  his  hat,  which  had  fallen  on  the 
ground. 

"Everything  is  over,"  he  thought,  "I  must  go.  And 
so  it  only  remains  for  me  to  say  good-by  to  you,  Irina 
Pavlovna,"  he  said  aloud,  and  suddenly  felt  a  pang, 
as  though  he  were  preparing  to  pronounce  his  own  sen- 
tence on  himself.  "It  only  remains  for  me  to  hope 
that  you  will  not  remember  evil  against  me,  and  .  .  . 
and  that  if  we  ever " 

Irina  again  cut  him  short. 

"Wait  a  little,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  don't  say  good- 
by  to  me  yet.  That  would  be  too  hurried." 

Something  wavered  in  Litvinov,  but  the  burning 
pain  broke  out  again  and  with  redoubled  violence  in 
his  heart. 

"But  I  can't  stay,"  he  cried.  "What  for?  Why 
prolong  this  torture  ?" 

"Don't  say  good-by  to  me  yet,"  repeated  Irina.  "I 
must  see  you  once  more.  .  .  .  Another  such  dumb 
parting  as  in  Moscow  again — no,  I  don't  want  that. 
You  can  go  now,  but  you  must  promise  me,  give  me 
your  word  of  honor  that  you  won't  go  away  without 
seeing  me  once  more." 


144  SMOKE 

"You  wish  that  ?" 

"I  insist  on  it.  If  you  go  away  without  saying  good- 
by  to  me,  I  shall  never  forgive  it,  do  vou  hear,  never! 
Strange!"  she  added  as  though  to  herself,  "I  cannot 
persuade  myself  that  I  am  in  Baden.  ...  I  keep  feel- 
ing that  I  am  in  Moscow.  ...  Go  now." 

Litvinov  got  up. 

"Irina  Pavlovna,"  he  said,  "give  me  your  hand." 

Irina  shook  her  head. 

"I  told  you  that  I  don't  want  to  say  good-by  to 
you.  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  ask  it  for  that." 

Irina  was  about  to  stretch  out  her  hand,  but  she 
glanced  at  Litvinov  for  the  first  time  since  his  avowal, 
and  drew  it  back. 

"No,  no,"  she  whispered,  "I  will  not  give  you  my 
hand.  No  .  .  .  no.  Go  now." 

Litvinov  bowed  and  went  away.  He  could  not  tell 
why  Irina  had  refused  him  that  last  friendly  hand- 
shake. .  .  .  He  could  not  know  what  she  feared. 

He  went  away,  and  Irina  again  sank  into  the  arm- 
chair and  again  covered  her  face. 


XVII 

LITVINOV  did  not  return  home;  he  went  up  to  the 
hills,  and  getting  into  a  thick  copse,  he  flung  himself 
face  downwards  on  the  earth,  and  lay  there  about  an 
hour.  He  did  not  suffer  tortures,  did  not  weep;  he 
sank  into  a  kind  of  heavy,  oppressive  stupor.  Never 
had  he  felt  anything  like  it;  it  was  an  insufferably 
aching  and  gnawing  sensation  of  emptiness,  emptiness 
in  himself,  his  surroundings,  everywhere.  .  .  .  He 
thought  neither  of  Irina  nor  of  Tatyana.  He  felt  one 
thing  only:  a  blow  had  fallen  and  life  was  sundered 
like  a  cord,  and  all  of  him  was  being  drawn  along  in 
the  clutches  of  something  chill  and  unfamiliar.  Some- 
times it  seemed  to  him  that  a  whirlwind  had  swooped 
down  upon  him,  and  he  had  the  sensation  of  its  swift 
whirling  round  and  the  irregular  beating  of  its  dark 
wings.  But  his  resolution  did  not  waver.  To  remain 
in  Baden  .  .  .  that  could  not  even  be  considered.  In 
thought  he  had  already  gone,  he  was  already  sitting 
in  the  rattling,  snorting  train,  hurrying,  hurrying  into 
the  dumb,  dead  distance.  He  got  up  at  last,  and  lean- 
ing his  head  against  a  tree,  stayed  motionless;  only 
with  one  hand,  he  all  unconsciously  snatched  and 
swung  in  rhythm  the  topmost  frond  of  a  fern.  The 
sound  of  approaching  footsteps  drew  him  out  of  his 
stupor :  two  charcoal-burners  were  making  their  way 
down  the  steep  path  with  large  sacks  on  their  shoul- 
ders. "It's  time!"  whispered  Litvinov,  and  he  fol- 
lowed the  charcoal-burners  to  the  town,  turned  into 
the  railway  station,  and  sent  off  a  telegram  to  Tat- 
us 


I46  SMOKE 

yana's  aunt,  Kapitolina  Markovna.  In  this  telegram  he 
informed  her  of  his  immediate  departure,  and  appoint- 
ed as  a  meeting-place,  Schroder's  hotel  in  Heidelberg. 

"Make  an  end,  make  an  end  at  once,"  he  thought; 
"it's  useless  putting  it  off  till  to-morrow."  Then  he 
went  to  the  gambling  saloon,  stared  with  dull  curiosity 
at  the  faces  of  two  or  three  gamblers,  got  a  back  view 
of  Bindasov's  ugly  head  in  the  distance,  noticed  the 
irreproachable  countenance  of  Pishtchalkin,  and  after 
waiting  a  little  under  the  colonnade,  he  set  off  delib- 
erately to  Irina's.  He  was  not  going  to  her  through 
the  force  of  sudden,  involuntary  temptation ;  when  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  go  away,  he  also  made  up  his 
mind  to  keep  his  word  and  see  her  once  more.  He 
went  into  the  hotel  unobserved  by  the  porter,  ascended 
the  staircase,  not  meeting  any  one,  and  without  knock- 
ing at  the  door,  he  mechanically  pushed  it  open  and 
went  into  the  room. 

In  the  room,  in  the  same  armchair,  in  the  same 
dress,  in  precisely  the  same  attitude  as  three  hours  be- 
fore, was  sitting  Irina.  ...  It  was  obvious  that  she 
had  not  moved  from  the  place,  had  not  stirred  all  that 
time.  She  slowly  raised  her  head,  and  seeing  Litvi- 
nov,  she  trembled  all  over  and  clutched  the  arm  of  the 
chair.  "You  frightened  me,"  she  whispererd. 

Litvinov  looked  at  her  with  speechless  bewilderment. 
The  expression  of  her  face,  her  lustefless  eyes,  as- 
tounded him. 

Irina  gave  a  forced  smile  and  smoothed  her  ruffled 
hair.  "Never  mind.  ...  I  really  don't  know.  ...  I 
think  I  must  have  fallen  asleep  here." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Irina  Pavlovna,"  began  Litvi- 
nov. "I  came  in  unannounced.  ...  I  wanted  to  do 
what  you  thought  fit  to  require  of  me.  So  as  I  am 
going  away  to-day " 


SMOKE 


147 


"To-day?  But  I  thought  you  told  me  that  you 
meant  first  to  write  a  letter " 

"I  have  sent  a  telegram." 

"Ah !  you  found  it  necessary  to  make  haste.  And 
when  are  you  going?  What  time,  I  mean?" 

"At  seven  o'clock  this  evening." 

"Ah !  at  seven  o'clock !    And  you  have  come  to  say 
good-by?" 
"Yes,  Irina  Pavlovna,  to  say  good-by." 

Irina  was  silent  for  a  little. 

"I  ought  to  thank  you,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  it  was 
probably  not  easy  for  you  to  come  here." 

"No,  Irina  Pavlovna,  it  was  anything  but  easy." 

"Life  is  not  generally  easy,  Grigory  Mihalitch; 
what  do  you  think  about  it  ?" 

"It  depends,  Irina  Pavlovna." 

Irina  was  silent  again  for  a  little;  she  seemed  stink 
in  thought. 

"You  have  proved  your  affection  for  me  by  com- 
ing," she  said  at  last,  "I  thank  you.  And  I  fully  ap- 
prove of  your  decision  to  put  an  end  to  everything  as 
soon  as  possible  .  .  .  because  any  delay  .  .  .  because 
.  .  .  because  I,  even  I  whom  you  have  reproached  as 
a  flirt,  called  an  actress  .  .  .  that,  I  think,  was  what 
you  called  me  ?  .  .  ." 

Irina  got  up  swiftly,  and,  sitting  down  in  another 
chair,  stooped  down  and  pressed  her  face  and  arms  on 
the  edge  of  the  table. 

"Because  I  love  you  .  .  ."  she  whispered  between 
her  clasped  fingers. 

Litvinov  staggered,  as  though  some  one  had  dealt 
him  a  blow  in  the  chest.  Irina  turned  her  head  deject^ 
edly  away  from  him,  as  though  she  in  her  turn  wanted 
to  hide  her  face  from  him,  and  laid  it  down  on  the 
table. 


i48  SMOKE 

"Yes,  I  love  you  ...  I  love  you  .  .  .  and  you 
know  it." 

"I?    I  know  it?"  Litvinov  said  at  last;  I?" 

"Well,  now  you  see,"  Irina  went  on,  "that  you  cer- 
tainly must  go,  that  delay's  impossible  .  .  .  both  for 
you,  and  for  me  delay's  impossible.  It's  dangerous, 
it's  terrible  .  .  .  good-by!"  she  added,  rising  impul- 
sively f-rom  her  chair,  "good-by!" 

She  took  a  few  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  door  of 
her  boudoir,  and  putting  her  hand  behind  her  back, 
made  a  hurried  movement  in  the  air,  as  though  she 
would  find  and  press  the  hand  of  Litvinov;  but  he 
stood  like  a  block  of  wood,  at  a  distance.  .  .  .  Once 
more  she  said,  "Good-by,  forget  me,"  and  without 
looking  round  she  rushed  away. 

Litvinov  remained  alone,  and  yet  still  could  not 
come  to  himself.  He  recovered  himself  at  last,  went 
quickly  to  the  boudoir  door,  uttered  Irina's  name  once, 
twice,  three  times.  ...  He  had  already  his  hand  on 
the  lock.  .  .  .  From  the  hotel  stairs  rose  the  sound  of 
Ratmirov's  sonorous  voice. 

Litvinov  pulled  down  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and 
went  out  on  the  staircase.  The  elegant  general  was 
standing  before  the  Swiss  porter's  box  and  explaining 
to  him  in  bad  German  that  he  wanted  a  hired  carriage 
for  the  whole  of  the  next  day.  On  catching  sight  of 
Litvinov,  he  again  lifted  his  hat  unnaturally  high,  and 
again  wished  him  "a  very  good-day" ;  he  was  obviously 
jeering  at  him,  but  Litvinov  had  no  thoughts  for  that. 
He  hardly  responded  to  Ratmirov's  bow,  and,  making 
his  way  to  his  lodging,  he  stood  still  before  his  already 
packed  and  closed  trunk.  His  head  was  turning  round 
and  his  heart  vibrating  like  a  harp-string.  What  was 
to  be  done  now  ?  And  could  he  have  foreseen  this  ?" 

Yes,  he  had  foreseen  it,  however  unlikely  it  seemed. 


SMOKE  i4y 

It  had  stunned  him  like  a  clap  of  thunder,  yet  he  had 
foreseen  it,  though  he  had  not  courage  even  to  ac- 
knowledge it.  Besides  he  knew  nothing  now  for  cer- 
tain. Everything  was  confusion  and  turmoil  within 
him ;  he  had  lost  the  thread  of  his  own  thoughts.  He 
remembered  Moscow,  he  remembered  how  then,  too, 
"it"  had  come  upon  him  like  a  sudden  tempest.  He 
was  breathless ;  rapture,  but  a  rapture  comfortless  and 
hopeless,  oppressed  and  tore  his  heart.  For  nothing 
in  the  world  would  he  have  consented  that  the  words 
uttered  by  Irina  should  not  have  actually  been  uttered 
by  her.  .  .  .  But  then?  those  words  could  not  for  al! 
that  change  the  resolution  he  had  taken.  As  before, 
it  did  not  waver ;  it  stood  firm  like  an  anchor.  Litvi- 
nov  had  lost  the  thread  of  his  own  thoughts  .  .  .  yes ; 
but  his  will  still  remained  to  him,  and  he  disposed  of 
himself  as  of  another  man  dependent  on  him.  He  rang 
for  the  waiter,  asked  him  for  the  bill,  bespoke  a  place 
in  the  evening  omnibus ;  designedly  he  cut  himself  off 
from  all  paths  of  retreat.  "If  I  die  for  it  after !"  he  de- 
clared, as  he  had  in  the  previous  sleepless  night;  that 
phrase  seemed  especially  to  his  taste.  "Then  even  if  I 
die  for  it !"  he  repeated,  walking  slowly  up  and  down 
the  room,  and  only  at  rare  intervals,  unconsciously,  he 
shut  his  eyes  and  held  his  breath,  while  those  words, 
those  words  of  Irina's  forced  their  way  into  his  soul, 
and  set  it  aflame.  It  seems  you  won't  love  twice,"  he 
thought;  "another  life  came  to  you,  you  let  it  come 
into  yours — never  to  be  rid  of  that  poison  to  the  end, 
you  will  never  break  those  bonds !  Yes ;  but  what  does 
that  prove?  Happiness?  ...  Is  it  possible?  You 
love  her,  granted  .  .  .  and  she  .  .  .  she  loves 
you.  ..." 

But  at  this  point  again  he  had  to  pull  himself  up. 
As  a  traveler  on  a  dark  night,  seeing  before  him  a 


I5o  SMOKE 

light,  and  afraid  of  losing  the  path,  never  for  an  in- 
stant takes  his  eyes  off  it,  so  Litvinov  continually  bent 
all  the  force  of  his  attention  on  a  single  point,  a  single 
aim.  To  reach  his  betrothed,  and  not  precisely  even 
his  betrothed  (he  was  trying  not  to  think  of  her)  but 
to  reach  a  room  in  the  Heidelberg  hotel,  that  was  what 
stood  immovably  before  him,  a  guiding  light.  What 
would  be  later,  he  did  not  know,  nor  did  he  want  to 
know.  .  .  .  One  thing  was  beyond  doubt,  he  would 
not  come  back.  "If  I  die  first!"  he  repeated  for  the 
tenth  time,  and  he  glanced  at  his  watch. 

A  quarter-past  six!  How  long  still  to  wait!  He 
paced  once  more  up  and  down.  The  sun  was  nearly 
setting,  the  sky  was  crimson  above  the  trees,  and  the 
pink  flush  of  twilight  lay  on  the  narrow  windows  of 
his  darkening  room.  Suddenly  Litvinov  fancied  the 
door  had  been  opened  quickly  and  softly  behind  him 
and  as  quickly  closed  again.  .  .  .  He  turned  round; 
at  the  door,  muffled  in  a  dark  cloak,  was  standing  a 
woman  .  .  . 

"Irina,"  he  cried,  and  clapped  his  hands  together  in 
amazement  .  .  .  She  raised  her  head  and  fell  upon 
his  breast. 

Two  hours  later  he  was  sitting  in  his  room  on  the 
sofa.  His  box  stood  in  the  corner,  open  and  empty, 
and  on  the  table  in  the  midst  of  things  flung  about  in 
disorder,  lay  a  letter  from  Tatyana,  just  received  by 
him.  She  wrote  to  him  that  she  had  decided  to  hasten 
her  departure  from  Dresden,  since  her  aunt's  health 
was  completely  restored,  and  that  if  nothing  happened 
to  delay  them,  they  would  both  be  in  Baden  the  fol- 
lowing day  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  hoped  that  he  would 
come  to  meet  them  at  the  station.  Apartments  had 
already  been  taken  for  them  by  Litvinov  in  the  same 
hotel  in  which  he  was  staying. 


SMOKE  151 

The  same  evening  he  sent  a  note  to  Irina,  and  the 
following  morning  he  received  a  reply  from  her. 
"Sooner  or  later,"  she  wrote,  "it  must  have  been.  I 
tell  you  again  what  I  said  yesterday :  my  life  is  in  your 
hands,  do  with  me  what  you  will.  I  do  not  want  to 
hamper  your  freedom,  but  let  me  say,  that  if  necessary, 
I  will  throw  up  everything,  and  follow  you  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth.  We  shall  see  each  other  to-morrow,  of 
course. — Your  Irina." 

The  last  two  words  were  written  in  a  large,  bold, 
resolute  hand. 


XVIII 

AMONG  the  persons  assembled  on  the  i8th  of  Au- 
gust at  twelve  o'clock  on  the  platform  at  the  railway 
station  was  Litvinov.  Not  long  before,  he  had  seen 
Irina:  she  was  sitting  in  an  open  carriage  with  her 
husband  and  another  gentleman,  somewhat  elderly. 
She  caught  sight  of  Litvinov,  and  he  perceived 
that  some  obscure  emotion  flitted  over  her  eyes; 
but  at  once  she  hid  herself  from  him  with  her  para- 
sol. 

A  strange  transformation  had  taken  place  in  him 
since  the  previous  day — in  his  whole  appearance,  his 
movements,  the  expression  of  his  face;  and  indeed  he 
felt  himself  a  different  man.  His  self-confidence  had 
vanished,  and  his  peace  of  mind  had  vanished,  too,  and 
his  respect  for  himself;  of  his  former  spiritual  condi- 
tion nothing  was  left.  Recent  ineffaceable  impres- 
sions obscured  all  the  rest  from  him.  Some  sensation 
unknown  before  had  come,  strong,  sweet — and  evil; 
the  mysterious  guest  had  made  its  way  to  the  inner- 
most shrine  and  taken  possession  and  lain  down  in  it, 
in  silence,  but  in  all  its  magnitude,  like  the  owner  in 
a  new  house.  Litvinov  was  no  longer  ashamed,  he 
was  afraid;  at  the  same  time  a  desperate  hardihood 
had  sprung  up  in  him;  the  captured,  the  vanquished 
know  well  this  mixture  of  opposing  feelings;  the  thief, 
too,  knows  something  of  it  after  his  first  robbery. 
Litvinov  had  been  vanquished,  vanquished  suddenly 
.  .  .  and  what  had  become  of  his  honesty? 
152 


SMOKE 


'53 


The  train  was  a  few  minutes  late.  Litvinov's  sus- 
pense passed  into  agonizing  torture ;  he  could  not  stop 
still  in  one  place,  and,  pale  all  over,  moved  about  jost- 
ling in  the  crowd.  "My  God,"  he  thought,  "if  I  only 
had  another  twenty-four  hours."  .  .  .  The  first  look 
at  Tanya,  the  first  look  of  Tanya  .  .  .  that  was  what 
filled  him  with  terror  .  .  .  that  was  what  he  had  to 
live  through  directly  .  .  .  And  afterwards?  After- 
wards .  .  .  come,  what  may  come!  ...  He  now 
made  no  more  resolutions,  he  could  not  answer  for 
himself  now.  His  phrase  of  yesterday  flashed  pain- 
fully through  his  head.  .  .  .  And  this  was  how  he  was 
meeting  Tanya.  .  .  . 

A  prolonged  whistle  sounded  at  last,  a  heavy  mo- 
mentarily increasing  rumble  was  heard,  and,  slowly 
rolling  around  a  bend  in  the  line,  the  train  came  into 
sight.  The  crowd  hurried  to  meet  it,  and  Litvinov  fol- 
lowed it,  dragging  his  feet  like  a  condemned  man. 
Faces,  ladies'  hats  began  to  appear  out  of  the  carriages, 
at  one  window  a  white  handkerchief  gleamed.  .  .  . 
Kapitolina  Markovna  was  waving  to  him.  ...  It  was 
over;  she  had  caught  sight  of  Litvinov  and  he  rec- 
ognized her.  The  train  stood  still;  Litvinov  rushed 
to  the  carriage  door,  and  opened  it;  Tatyana  was 
standing  near  her  aunt,  smiling  brightly  and  holding 
out  her  hand. 

He  helped  them  both  to  get  out,  uttered  a  few  words 
of  welcome,  unfinished  and  confused,  and  at  once  bus- 
tled about,  began  taking  their  tickets,  their  traveling 
bags,  and  rugs,  ran  to  find  a  porter,  called  a  fly ;  other 
people  were  bustling  around  them.  He  was  glad  of 
their  presence,  their  fuss,  and  loud  talk.  Tatyana 
moved  a  little  aside,  and,  still  smiling,  waited  calmly 
for  his  hurried  arrangements  to  be  concluded.  Kapi- 
tolina Markovna,  on  the  other  hand,  could  not  keep 


154  SMOKE 

still;  she  could  not  believe  that  she  was  at  last  at 
Baden. 

She  suddenly  cried,  "But  the  parasols?  Tanya, 
where  are  our  parasols  ?"  all  unconscious  that  she  was 
holding  them  fast  under  her  arm ;  then  she  began  tak- 
ing a  loud  and  prolonged  farewell  of  another  lady 
with  whom  she  had  made  friends  on  the  journey  from 
Heidelberg  to  Baden.  This  lady  was  no  other  than 
our  old  friend  Madame  Suhantchikov.  She  had  gone 
away  to  Heidelberg  to  do  obeisance  to  Gubaryov,  and 
was  returning  with  "instructions."  Kapitolina  Mar- 
kovna  wore  a  rather  peculiar  striped  mantle  and  a 
round  traveling  hat  of  a  mushroom-shape,  from  under 
which  her  short  white  hair  fell  in  disorder ;  short  and 
thin,  she  was  flushed  with  traveling  and  kept  talking 
Russian  in  a  shrill  and  penetrating  voice.  .  .  .  She 
was  an  object  of  attention  at  once. 

Litvinov  at  last  put  her  and  Tatyana  into  a  fly,  and 
placed  himself  opposite  them.  The  horses  started. 
Then  followed  questionings,  renewed  handshaking,  in- 
terchanging of  smiles  and  welcomes.  .  .  .  Litvinov 
breathed  freely ;  the  first  moment  had  passed  off  satis- 
factorily. Nothing  in  him,  apparently,  had  struck  or 
bewildered  Tanya;  she  was  smiling  just  as  brightly 
and  confidently,  she  was  blushing  as  charmingly,  and 
laughing  as  goodnaturedly.  He  brought  himself  at 
last  to  take  a  look  at  her ;  not  a  stealthy  cursory  glance, 
but  a  direct  steady  look  at  her,  hitherto  his  own  eyes 
had  refused  to  obey  him.  His  heart  throbbed  with  in- 
voluntary emotion:  the  serene  expression  of  that  hon- 
est, candid  face  gave  him  a  pang  of  bitter  reproach. 
"So  you  are  here,  poor  girl,"  he  thought,  "you  whom 
I  have  so  longed  for,  so  urged  to  come,  with  whom  I 
had  hoped  to  spend  my  life  to  the  end,  you  have  come, 
you  believed  in  me  ...  while  I  ...  while  I."  .  .  . 


SMOKE  !55 

Litvinov's  head  sank;  but  Kapitolina  Markovna  gave 
him  no  time  for  musing;  she  was  pelting  him  with 
questions. 

"What  is  that  building  with  columns?  Where  is 
it  the  gambling's  done?  Who  is  that  coming 
along?  Tanya,  Tanya,  look,  what  crinolines!  And 
who  can  that  be?  I  suppose  they  are  mostly 
French  creatures  from  Paris  here?  Mercy,  what  a 
hat!  Can  you  get  everything  here  just  as  in  Paris? 
But,  I  expect,  everything's  awfully  dear,  eh?  Ah,  I've 
made  the  acquaintance  of  such  a  splendid,  intellectual 
woman!  You  know  her,  Grigory  Mihalitch;  she  told 
me  she  had  met  you  at  some  Russian's,  who's  a  won- 
derfully intellectual  person,  too.  She  promised  to  come 
and  see  us.  How  she  does  abuse  all  these  aristocrats 
— it's  simply  superb!  What  is  that  gentleman  with 
gray  moustaches?  The  Prussian  king?  Tanya,  Tan- 
ya, look,  that's  the  Prussian  king.  No?  not  the  Prus- 
sian king,  the  Dutch  ambassador,  did  you  say?  I  can't 
hear,  the  wheels  rattle  so.  Ah,  what  exquisite  trees!'* 

"Yes,  exquisite,  aunt,"  Tanya  assented,  "and  how 
green  everything  is  here,  how  bright  and  gay !  Isn't  it, 
Grigory  Mihalitch?" 

"Oh,  very  bright  and  gay"  ...  he  answered 
through  his  teeth. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  last  before  the  hotel.  Litvi- 
nov  conducted  the  two  travelers  to  the  room  taken  for 
them,  promised  to  come  back  within  an  hour,  and  went 
to  his  own  room.  Directly  he  entered  it,  he  fell  again 
under  the  spell  which  had  been  lulled  for  a  while. 
Here,  in  that  room,  since  the  day  before,  Irina  reigned 
supreme ;  everything  was  eloquent  of  her,  the  very  aif 
seemed  to  have  kept  secret  traces  of  her  visit.  .  .  . 
Again  Litvinov  felt  himself  her  slave.  He  drew  out 
her  handkerchief,  hidden  in  his  bosom,  pressed  it  to 


156  SMOKE 

his  lips,  and  burning  memories  flowed  in  subtle  poison 
through  his  veins.  He  realized  that  there  was  no  turn- 
ing back,  no  choosing  now;  the  sorrowful  emotion 
aroused  in  him  by  Tatyana  melted  away  like  snow  in 
the  fire,  and  remorse  died  down  .  .  .  died  down  so 
completely  that  his  uneasiness  even  was  soothed,  and 
the  possibility — present  to  his  intellect — of  hypocrisy 
no  longer  revolted  him.  .  .  .  Love,  Irina's  love,  that 
was  now  his  truth,  his  bond,  his  conscience.  .  .  .  The 
sensible  Litvinov  did  not  even  ponder  how  to  get  out 
of  a  position,  the  horror  and  hideousness  of  which  he 
bore  lightly,  as  if  it  did  not  concern  him. 

The  hour  had  not  yet  passed  when  a  waiter  came  to 
Litvinov  from  the  newly  arrived  ladies ;  they  begged 
him  to  come  to  them  in  the  public  drawing-room.  He 
followed  the  messenger,  and  found  them  already 
dressed  and  in  their  hats.  They  both  expressed  a 
desire  to  go  out  at  once  to  see  Baden,  as  the  weather 
was  so  fine.  Kapitolina  Markovna,  especially,  seemed 
burning  with  impatience;  she  was  quite  cast  down 
when  she  heard  that  the  hour  of  the  fashionable  prom- 
enade before  the  Konversation  Hall  had  not  yet  ar- 
rived. Litvinov  gave  her  his  arm,  and  the  ceremony  of 
sight-seeing  began.  Tatyana  walked  beside  her  aunt, 
looking  about  her  with  quiet  interest ;  Kapitolina  Mar- 
kovna pursued  her  inquiries.  The  sight  of  the  roulette, 
the  dignified  croupiers,  whom — had  she  met  them  in 
any  other  place — she  would  certainly  have  taken  for 
ministers,  the  quickly  moving  scoops,  the  heaps  of  gold 
and  silver  on  the  green  cloth,  the  old  women  gam- 
bling, and  the  painted  cocottes  reduced  Kapitolina 
Markovna  to  a  sort  of  speechless  stupor ;  she  altogether 
forgot  that  she  ought  to  feel  moral  indignation,  and 
could  only  gaze  and  gaze,  giving  a  start  of  surprise 
at  every  new  sight.  .  .  .  The  whiz  of  the  ivory  ball 


SMOKE  157 

into  the  bottom  of  the  roulette  thrilled  her  to  the  mar- 
row of  her  bones,  and  it  was  only  when  she  was  again 
in  the  open  air  that,  drawing  a  long  breath,  she  recov- 
ered energy  enough  to  denounce  games  of  chance  as  an 
immoral  invention  of  aristocracy  A  fixed,  unpleasant 
smile  had  made  its  appearance  on  Litvinov's  lips;  he 
had  spoken  abruptly  and  lazily,  as  though  he  were 
annoyed  or  bored.  .  .  .  But  now  he  turned  round 
towards  Tatyana,  and  was  thrown  into  secret  confu- 
sion ;  she  was  looking  attentively  at  him,  with  an  ex- 
pression as  though  she  were  asking  herself  what  sort 
of  an  impression  was  being  made  on  her.  He  made 
haste  to  nod  his  head  to  her,  she  responded  with  the 
same  gesture,  and  again  looked  at  him  questioningly, 
with  a  sort  of  strained  effort,  as  though  he  were  stand- 
ing much  farther  off  than  he  really  was.  Litvinov  led 
his  ladies  away  from  the  Konversation  Hall,  and  pass- 
ing the  "Russian  tree,"  under  which  two  Russian  ladies 
were  already  sitting,  he  went  towards  Lichtenthaler 
Alice.  He  had  hardly  entered  the  avenue  when  he  saw 
Irina  in  the  distance. 

She  was  walking  towards  him  with  her  husband 
and  Potugin.  Litvinov  turned  white  as  a  sheet ;  he  did 
not  slacken  his  pace,  however,  and  when  he  was  on. 
a  level  with  her,  he  made  a  bow  without  speaking. 
She  too  bowed  to  him,  politely,  but  coldly,  and  taking 
in  Tatyana  in  a  rapid  glance,  she  glided  by.  ...  Rat- 
mirov  lifted  his  hat  high,  Potugin  muttered  some- 
thing. 

"Who  is  that  lady?"  Tatyana  asked  suddenly.  Till 
that  instant  she  had  hardly  opened  her  lips. 

"That  lady?"  repeated  Litvinov,  "that  lady?  That 
is  a  Madame  Ratmirov." 

"Is  she  Russian?" 

"Yes." 


I58  SMOKE 

"Did  you  make  her  acquaintance  here?" 

"No;  I  have  known  her  a  long  while." 

"How  beautiful  she  is!" 

"Did  you  notice  her  dress?"  put  in  Kapitolina  Mar- 
kovna.  "Ten  families  might  live  for  a  whole  year  on 
the  cost  of  her  lace  alone.  Was  that  her  husband 
with  her?"  she  inquired  turning  to  Litvinov. 

"Yes." 

"He  must  be  awfully  rich,  I  suppose?" 

"Really  I  don't  know ;  I  don't  think  so." 

"What  is  his  rank?" 

"He's  a  general." 

"What  eyes  she  has!"  said  Tatyana,  "and  what  a 
strange  expression  in  them :  pensive  and  penetrating 
at  the  same  time.  ...  I  have  never  seen  such  eyes." 

Litvinov  made  no  answer;  he  fancied  that  he  felt 
again  Tatyana's  questioning  glance  bent  on  his  face, 
but  he  was  wrong,  she  was  looking  at  her  own  feet,  at 
the  sand  of  the  path. 

"Mercy  on  us!  Who  is  that  fright?"  cried  Kapito- 
lina Markovna  suddenly,  pointing  to  a  low,  jaunting- 
car  in  which  a  red-haired  pug-nosed  woman  lay  lolling 
impudently,  in  an  extraordinarily  gorgeous  costume 
and  lilac  stockings. 

"That  fright!  why,  that's  the  celebrated  Ma'mselle 
Cora." 

"Who?" 

"Ma'mselle  Cora  ...  a  Parisian  .  .  .  notoriety." 

"What?    That  pug?    Why,  but  she's  hideous!" 

"It  seems  that's  no  hindrance." 

Kapitolina  Markovna  could  only  lift  her  hands  in 
astonishment. 

"Well,  this  Baden  of  yours!"  she  brought  out  at 
last.  "Can  one  sit  down  on  a  seat  here?  I'm  rather 
tired." 


SMOKE  159 

"Of  course  you  can,  Kapitolina  Markovna.  .  .  . 
That's  what  the  seats  are  put  here  for." 

"Well,  really,  there's  no  knowing!  But  there  in 
Paris,  I'm  told,  there  are  seats,  too,  along  the  boule- 
vards ;  but  it's  not  proper  to  sit  on  them." 

Litvinov  made  no  reply  to  Kapitolina  Markovna ; 
only  at  that  moment  he  realized  that  two  paces  away 
was  the  very  spot  where  he  had  had  that  explana- 
tion with  Irina,  which  had  decided  everything.  Then 
he  recalled  that  he  had  noticed  a  small  rosy  spot  on 
her  cheek  to-day.  .  .  . 

Kapitolina  Markovna  sank  down  on  to  the  seat,  Tat- 
yana  sat  down  beside  her.  Litvinov  remained  on  the 
path ;  between  Tatyana  and  him — or  was  it  only  his 
fancy  ? — something  seemed  to  have  happened  .  .  .  un- 
consciously and  gradually. 

"Ah,  she's  a  wretch,  a  perfect  wretch!"  Kapitolina 
Markovna  declared,  shaking  her  head  commiseratingly ; 
"why,  with  the  price  of  her  get-up,  you  could  keep  not 
ten,  but  a  hundred  families.  Did  you  see  under  her 
hat,  on  her  red  hair,  there  were  diamonds  ?  Upon  my 
word,  diamonds  in  the  day-time!" 

"Her  hair's  not  red,"  remarked  Litvinov;  "she 
dyes  it  red — that's  the  fashion  now." 

Again  Kapitolina  Markovna  could  only  lift  her 
hands ;  she  was  positively  dumbfounded. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "where  we  were,  in  Dres- 
den, things  had  not  got  to  such  a  scandalous  pitch,  yet. 
It's  a  little  further  from  Paris,  anyway,  that's  why. 
Don't  you  think  that's  it,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  eh?" 

"Don't  I  think  so?"  answered  Litvinov.  While  he 
thought  to  himself,  "What  on  earth  is  she  talking  of?" 
"I?  Of  course  ...  of  course.  .  .  ." 

But  at  this  point  the  sound  of  slow  footsteps  was 
heard,  and  Potugin  approached  the  seat. 


160  SMOKE 

"Good-morning,  Grigory  Mihalitch,"  he  began,  smil- 
ing and  nodding. 

Litvinov  grasped  him  by  the  hand  at  once. 

"Good-morning,  good-morning,  Sozont  Ivanitch.  I 
fancy  I  passed  you  just  now  with  .  .  .  just  now  in  the 
avenue  ?" 

"Yes,  it  was  me." 

Potugin  bowed  respectfully  to  the  ladies  sitting  on 
the  seat. 

"Let  me  introduce  you,  Sozont  Ivanitch.  Old 
friends  and  relatives  of  mine,  who  have  only  just  ar- 
rived in  Baden.  Potugin,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  a  coun- 
tryman of  ours,  also  staying  in  Baden." 

Both  ladies  rose  a  little.    Potugin  renewed  his  bows. 

"It's  quite  a  levee  here,"  Kapitolina  Markovna  be- 
gan in  a  delicate  voice ;  the  kind-hearted  old  lady  was 
easily  intimidated,  but  she  tried  before  all  to  keep  up 
her  dignity.  "Every  one  regards  it  as  an  agreeable 
duty  to  stay  here." 

"Baden  is  an  agreeable  place,  certainly,"  answered 
Potugin,  with  a  sidelong  look  at  Tatyana;  "a  very 
agreeable  place,  Baden." 

"Yes;  but  it's  really  too  aristocratic,  so  far  as  I  can 
form  an  opinion.  You  see  we  have  been  staying  all 
this  time  in  Dresden  ...  a  very  interesting  town ;  but 
here  there's  positively  a  levee." 

"She's  pleased  with  the  word,"  thought  Potugin. 
"You  are  perfectly  right  in  that  observation,"  he 
said  aloud ;  "but  then  the  scenery  here  is  exquisite,  and 
the  site  of  the  place  is  something  one  cannot  often  find. 
Your  fellow-traveler,  especially,  is  sure  to  appreciate 
that.  Are  you  not,  madam?"  he  added,  addressing 
himself  this  time  directly  to  Tatyana. 

Tatyana  raised  her  large,  clear  eyes  to  Potugin.  It 
.seemed  as  though  she  were  perplexed.  What  was 


SMOKE  101 

wanted  of  her,  and  why  had  Litvinov  introduced  her, 
on  the  first  day  of  her  arrival,  to  this  unknown  man, 
who  had,  though,  a  kind  and  clever  face,  and  was  look- 
ing at  her  with  cordial  and  friendly  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  "it's  very  nice  here." 

"You  ought  to  visit  the  old  castle,"  Potugin  went 
on ;  "I  especially  advise  a  drive  to " 

"The  Saxon  Switzerland "  Kapitolina  Mar- 

kovna  was  beginning. 

The  blare  of  wind  instruments  floated  up  the  ave- 
nue; it  was  the  Prussian  military  band  from  Rastadt 
(in  1862  Rastadt  was  still  an  allied  fortress),  begin- 
ning its  weekly  concert  in  the  pavilion.  Kapitolina 
Markovna  got  up. 

"The  music!"  she  said;  "the  music  a  la  Conversa- 
tion! .  .  .  We  must  go  there.  It's  four  o'clock  now 
.  .  .  isn't  it?  Will  the  fashionable  world  be  there 
now?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Potugin :  "this  is  the  most  fashion- 
able time,  and  the  music  is  excellent." 

"Well,  then,  don't  let  us  linger.  Tanya,  come 
along." 

"You  allow  me  to  accompany  you?"  asked  Potugin, 
to  Litvinov's  considerable  astonishment;  it  was  not 
possible  for  it  even  to  enter  his  head  that  Irina  had 
sent  Potugin. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  simpered. 

"With    the    greatest    pleasure — M'sieu  .  .  .M'sieu 

»> 

"Potugin,"  he  murmured,  and  he  offered  her  his 
arm. 

Litvinov  gave  his  to  Tatyana,  and  both  couples 
walked  towards  the  Konversation  Hall. 

Potugin  went  on  talking  with  Kapitolina  Markovna. 
But  Litvinov  walked  without  uttering  a  word;  yet 


162  SMOKE 

twice,  without  any  cause,  he  smiled,  and  faintly 
pressed  Tatyana's  arm  against  his.  There  was  a  false- 
hood in  those  demonstrations,  to  which  she  made  no 
response,  and  Litvinov  was  conscious  of  the  lie.  They 
did  not  express  a  mutual  confidence  in  the  close  union 
of  two  souls  given  up  to  one  another ;  they  were  a  tem- 
porary substitute — for  words  which  he  could  not  find. 
That  unspoken  something  which  was  beginning  be- 
tween them  grew  and  gained  strength.  Once  more 
Tatyana  looked  attentively,  almost  intently,  at  him. 

It  was  the  same  before  the  Konversation  Hall  at  the 
little  table  round  which  they  all  four  seated  them- 
selves, with  this  sole  difference,  that,  in  the  noisy 
bustle  of  the  crowd,  the  clash  and  roar  of  the  music, 
Litvinov's  silence  seemed  more  comprehensible.  Kapi- 
tolina  Markovna  became  quite  excited ;  Potugin  hardly 
had  time  to  answer  her  questions,  to  satisfy  her  curios- 
ity. Luckily  for  him,  there  suddenly  appeared  in  the 
mass  of  moving  figures  the  lank  person  and  everlast- 
ingly leaping  eyes  of  Madame  Suhantchikov.  Kapito- 
lina  Markovna  at  once  recognized  her,  invited  her  to 
their  table,  made  her  sit  down,  and  a  hurricane  of 
words  arose. 

Potugin  turned  to  Tatyana,  and  began  a  conversa- 
tion with  her  in  a  soft,  subdued  voice,  his  face  bent 
slightly  down  towards  her  with  a  very  friendly  ex- 
pression; and  she,  to  her  own  surprise,  answered  him 
easily  and  freely;  she  was  glad  to  talk  with  this 
stranger,  this  outsider,  while  Litvinov  sat  immovable 
as  before,  with  the  same  fixed  and  unpleasant  smile  on 
his  lips. 

Dinner-time  came  at  last.  The  music  ceased,  the 
crowd  thinned.  Kapitolina  Markovna  parted  from 
Madame  Suhantchikov  on  the  warmest  terms.  She 
had  conceived  an  immense  respect  for  her,  though  she 


SMOKE  163 

did  say  afterwards  to  her  niece,  that  "this  person  is 
really  too  severe;  but  then  she  does  know  everything 
and  everybody;  and  we  must  really  get  sewing-ma- 
chines directly  the  wedding  festivities  are  over."  Pcrtu- 
gin  took  leave  of  them ;  Litvinov  conducted  his  ladies 
home.  As  they  were  going  into  the  hotel,  he  was 
handed  a  note ;  he  moved  aside  and  hurriedly  tore  open 
the  envelope.  On  a  tiny  scrap  of  vellum  paper  were 
the  following  words,  scribbled  in  pencil :  "Come  to  me 
this  evening  at  seven,  for  one  minute,  I  entreat  you. — 
Irina."  Litvinov  thrust  the  note  into  his  pocket,  and, 
turning  round,  put  on  his  smile  again  ...  to  whom? 
why?  Tatyana  was  standing  with  her  back  to  him. 
They  dined  at  the  common  table  of  the  hotel.  Lit- 
vinov was  sitting  between  Kapitolina  Markovna  and 
Tatyana,  and  he  began  talking,  telling  anecdotes  and 
pouring  out  wine  for  himself  and  the  ladies,  with  a 
strange,  sudden  joviality.  He  conducted  himself  in 
such  a  free  and  easy  manner,  that  a  French  infantry 
officer  from  Strasbourg,  sitting  opposite,  with  a  beard 
and  moustaches  a  la  Napoleon  III.,  thought  it  admis- 
sible to  join  in  the  conversation,  and  even  wound  up 
by  a  toast  a  la  sante  des  belles  Moscovites!  After 
dinner,  Litvinov  escorted  the  two  ladies  to  their  room, 
and  after  standing  a  little  while  at  the  window  with  a 
scowl  on  his  face,  he  suddenly  announced  that  he  had 
to  go  out  for  a  short  time  on  business,  but  would  be 
back  without  fail  by  the  evening.  Tatyana  said  noth- 
ing; she  turned  pale  and  dropped  her  eyes.  Kapito- 
lina Markovna  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  a  nap  after 
dinner ;  Tatyana  was  well  aware  that  Litvinov  knew  of 
this  habit  of  her  aunt's ;  she  had  expected  him  to  take 
advantage  of  it,  to  remain  with  her,  for  he  had  not 
been  alone  with  her,  nor  spoken  frankly  to  her,  since 
her  arrival.  And  now  he  was  going  out !  What  was 


164  SMOKE 

she  to  make  of  it?    And,  indeed,  his  whole  beha\ :  : 
all  along.  .  .  . 

Litvinov  withdrew  hurriedly,  not  waiting  for  re- 
monstrances; Kapitolina  Markovna  lay  down  on  the 
sofa,  and  with  one  or  two  sighs  and  groans,  fell  into 
a  serene  sleep ;  while  Tatyana  moved  away  into  a  cor- 
ner, and  sat  down  in  a  low  chair,  folding  her  arms 
tightly  across  her  bosom. 


XIX 

LITVINOV  went  quickly  up  the  staircase  of  the  Hotel 
de  I'Europe;  a  little  girl  of  thirteen,  with  a  sly  little 
face  of  Kalmuck  cast,  who  had  apparently  been  on 
the  look-out  for  him,  stopped  him,  saying  in  Russian : 
"Come  this  way,  please;  Irina  Pavlovna  will  be  here 
directly."  He  looked  at  her  in  perplexity.  She  smiled, 
repeated :  "Come  along,  come  along,"  and  led  him  to  a 
small  room,  facing  Irina's  bedroom,  and  filled  with 
traveling  trunks  and  portmanteaus,  then  at  once  dis- 
appeared, closing  the  door  very  softly.  Litvinov  had 
not  time  to  look  about  him,  before  the  door  was  quickly 
opened,  and  before  him  in  a  pink  ball-dress,  with  pearls 
in  her  hair  and  on  her  neck,  stood  Irina.  She  simply 
rushed  at  him,  clutched  him  by  both  hands,  and  for  a 
few  instants  was  speechless;  her  eyes  were  shining, 
and  her  bosom  heaving  as  though  she  had  run  up  to  a 
height. 

"I  could  not  receive  .  .  .  you  there,"  she  began  in  a 
hurried  whisper :  "we  are  just  going  to  a  dinner  party, 
but  I  wanted  above  everything  to  see  you.  .  .  .  That 
is  your  betrothed,  I  suppose,  with  whom  I  met  you 
to-day  ?" 

"Yes,  that  was  my  betrothed,"  said  Litvinov,  with 
emphasis  on  the  word  "was." 

"And  so  I  wanted  to  see  you  for  one  minute,  to  tell 
you  that  you  must  consider  yourself  absolutely  free, 
that  everything  that  happened  yesterday  ought  not  to 
affect  your  plans.  .  .  ." 

"Trina!"  cried  Litvinov,  "why  are  you  saying  this?" 
165 


166  SMOKE 

He  uttered  these  words  in  a  loud  voice.  There  was 
the  note  in  them  of  unbounded  passion.  Irina  involun- 
tarily closed  her  eyes  for  a  minute. 

"Oh,  my  sweet  one!"  she  went  on  in  a  whisper  still 
more  subdued,  but  with  unrestrained  emotion,  "you 
don't  know  how  I  love  you,  but  yesterday  I  only  paid 
my  debt,  I  made  up  for  the  past.  ...  Ah !  I  could  not 
give  you  back  my  youth,  as  I  would,  but  I  have  laid  no 
obligations  on  you,  I  have  exacted  no  promise  of  any 
sort  of  you,  my  sweet!  Do  what  you  will,  you  are 
free  as  air,  you  are  bound  in  no  way,  understand  that, 
understand  that !" 

"But  I  can't  live  without  you,  Irina,"  Litvinov  in- 
terrupted, in  a  whisper,  now ;  "I  am  yours  for  ever  and 
always,  since  yesterday.  ...  I  can  only  breathe  at 
your  feet.  .  .  ." 

He  stooped  down  all  in  a  tremble  to  kiss  her  hands. 
Irina  gazed  at  his  bent  head. 

"Then  let  me  say,"  she  said,  "that  I,  too,  am  ready 
for  anything,  that  I,  too,  will  consider  no  one,  and 
nothing.  As  you  decide,  so  it  shall  be.  I,  too,  am  for 
ever  yours  .  .  .  yours." 

Some  one  tapped  warily  at  the  door.  Irina  stooped, 
whispered  once  more,  "Yours  .  .  .  good-by!"  Lit- 
vinov felt  her  breath  on  his  hair,  the  touch  of  her  lips. 
When  he  stood  up,  she  was  no  longer  in  the  room,  but 
her  dress  was  rustling  in  the  corridor,  and  from  the 
distance  came  the  voice  of  Ratmirov:  "Eh  bienf 
Vous  ne  venez  pas?" 

Litvinov  sat  down  on  a  high  chest,  and  hid  his  face. 
A  feminine  fragrance,  fresh  and  delicate,  clung  about 
him.  .  .  .  Irina  had  held  his  hand  in  her  hands.  "It's 
too  much,  too  much,"  was  his  thought.  The  little  girl 
came  into  the  room,  and  smiling  again  in  response  to 
his  agitated  glance,  said : 


SMOKE  167 

"Kindly  come,  now " 

He  got  up,  and  went  out  of  the  hotel.  It  was  no 
good  even  to  think  of  returning  home:  he  had  to  re- 
gain his  balance  first.  His  heart  was  beating  heavily 
and  unevenly;  the  earth  seemed  faintly  reeling  under 
his  feet.  Litvinov  turned  again  along  the  Lichten- 
thaler  Alice.  He  realized  that  the  decisive  moment 
had  come,  that  to  put  it  off  longer,  to  dissemble,  to 
turn  away,  had  become  impossible,  that  an  explanation1 
with  Tatyana  had  become  inevitable ;  he  could  imagine 
how  she  was  sitting  there,  never  stirring,  waiting  for 
him  ...  he  could  foresee  what  he  would  say  to  her; 
but  how  was  he  to  act,  how  was  he  to  begin  ?  He  had 
turned  his  back  on  his  upright,  well-organized,  orderly 
future;  he  knew  that  he  was  flinging  himself  headlong 
into  a  gulf  .  .  .  but  that  did  not  confound  him.  The 
thing  was  done,  but  how  was  he  to  face  his  judge? 
And  if  only  his  judge  would  come  to  meet  him — an 
angel  with  a  flaming  sword ;  that  would  be  easier  for 
a  sinning  heart  .  .  .  instead  of  which  he  had  himself 
to  plunge  the  knife  in.  ...  Infamous!  But  to  turn 
back,  to  abandon  that  other,  to  take  advantage  of  the 
freedom  offered  him,  recognized  as  his.  ...  No !  bet- 
ter to  die !  No,  he  would  have  none  of  such  loathsome 
freedom  .  .  .  but  would  humble  himself  in  the  dust, 
and  might  those  eyes  look  down  on  him  with 
love.  .  .  . 

"Grigory  Mihalitch,"  said  a  melancholy  voice,  and 
some  one's  hand  was  laid  heavily  upon  Litvinov. 

He  looked  round  in  some  alarm  and  recognized 
Potugin. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Grigory  Mihalitch,"  began  the 
latter  with  his  customary  humility,  "I  am  disturbing 
you,  perhaps,  but,  seeing  you  in  the  distance,  I  thought. 

.  .  However  if  you're  not  in  the  humor.  .  .  ." 


i68  SMOKE 

"On  the  contrary  I'm  delighted,"  Litvinov  mut- 
tered between  his  teeth. 

Potugin  walked  beside  him. 

"What  a  lovely  evening!"  he  began,  "so  warm! 
Have  you  been  walking  long?" 

"No,  not  long." 

"Why  do  I  ask,  though ;  I've  just  seen  you  come  out 
of  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe." 

"Then  you've  been  following  me?" 

"Yes." 

"You  have  something  to  say  to  me?" 

"Yes,"  Potugin  repeated,  hardly  audibly. 

Litvinov  stopped  and  looked  at  his  uninvited  com- 
panion. His  face  was  pale,  his  eyes  moved  restlessly ; 
his  contorted  features  seemed  overshadowed  by  old, 
long-standing  grief. 

"What  do  you  specially  want  to  say  to  me?"  Lit- 
vinov said  slowly,  and  he  moved  forward. 

"Ah,  with  your  permission  .  .  .  directly.  If  it's  all 
the  same  to  you,  let  us  sit  down  here  on  this  seat.  It 
will  be  most  convenient." 

"Why,  this  is  something  mysterious,"  Litvinov  de- 
clared, seating  himself  near  him.  "You  don't  seem 
quite  yourself,  Sozont  Ivanitch." 

"No;  I'm  all  right;  and  it's  nothing  mysterious 
either.  I  specially  wanted  to  tell  you  ...  the  impres- 
sion made  on  me  by  your  betrothed  .  .  .  she  is  be- 
trothed to  you,  I  think?  .  .  .  well,  anyway,  by  the 
girl  to  whom  you  introduced  me  to-day.  I  must  say 
that  in  the  course  of  my  whole  existence  I  have  never 
met  a  more  attractive  creature.  A  heart  of  gold,  a 
really  angelic  nature." 

Potugin  uttered  all  these  words  with  the  same  bitter 
and  mournful  air,  so  that  even  Litvinov  could  not  help 


SMOKE  169 

noticing  the  incongruity  between  his  expression  of  face 
and  his  speech. 

"You  have  formed  a  perfectly  correct  estimate  of 
Tatyana  Petrovna,"  Litvinov  began,  "though  I  can't 
help  being  surprised,  first  that  you  should  be  aware  of 
the  relation  in  which  I  stand  to  her;  and  secondly, 
that  you  should  have  understood  her  so  quickly.  She 
really  has  an  angelic  nature ;  but  allow  me  to  ask,  did 
you  want  to  talk  to  me  about  this?" 

"It's  impossible  not  to  understand  her  at  once," 
Potugin  replied  quickly,  as  though  'evading  the  last 
question.  "One  need  only  take  one  look  into  her  eyes. 
She  deserves  every  possible  happiness  on  earth,  and 
enviable  is  the  fate  of  the  man  whose  lot  it  is  to  give 
her  that  happiness!  One  must  hope  he  may  prove 
worthy  of  such  a  fate." 

Litvinov  frowned  slightly. 

"Excuse  me,  Sozont  Ivanitch,"  he  said,  "I  must 
confess  our  conversation  strikes  me  as  altogether 
rather  original.  ...  I  should  like  to  know,  does  the 
hint  contained  in  your  words  refer  to  me?" 

Potugin  did  not  at  once  answer  Litvinov;  he  was 
visibly  struggling  with  himself. 

"Grigory  Mihalitch,"  he  began  at  last,  "either  I  am 
completely  mistaken  in  you,  or  you  are  capable  of  hear- 
ing the  truth,  from  whomsoever  it  may  come,  and  in 
however  unattractive  a  form  it  may  present  itself.  I 
told  you  just  now,  that  I  saw  where  you  came  from." 

"Why,  from  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe.  What  of 
that?" 

"I  know,  of  course,  whom  you  have  been  to  sec 
there." 

"What?" 

"You  have  been  to  see  Madame  Ratmirov." 

"Well,  I  have  been  to  see  her.     What  next  ?" 


170  SMOKE 

"What  next?  .  .  .  You,  betrothed  to  Tatyana  Pet- 
rovna,  have  been  to  see  Madame  Ratmirov,  whom  you 
love  .  .  .  and  who  loves  you." 

Litvinov  instantly  got  up  from  the  seat;  the  Hood 
rushed  to  his  head. 

"What's  this?"  he  cried  at  last,  in  a  voice  of  concen- 
trated exasperation:  "stupid  jesting,  spying?  Kindly 
explain  yourself." 

Potugin  turned  a  weary  look  upon  him. 

"Ah!  don't  be  offended  at  my  words.  Grigory 
Mihalitch,  me  you  cannot  offend.  I  did  not  begin  to 
talk  to  you  for  that,  and  I'm  in  no  joking  humor 
now." 

"Perhaps,  perhaps.  I'm  ready  to  believe  in  the  ex- 
cellence of  your  intentions ;  but  still  I  may  be  allowed 
to  ask  you  by  what  right  you  meddle  in  the  private 
affairs,  in  the  inner  life,  of  another  man,  a  man  who 
is  nothing  to  you ;  and  what  grounds  you  have  for  so 
confidently  giving  out  your  own  .  .  .  invention  for 
the  truth?" 

"My  invention!  If  I  had  imagined  it,  it  should  not 
have  made  you  angry;  and  as  for  my  right,  well  I 
never  heard  before  that  a  man  ought  to  ask  himself 
whether  he  had  the  right  to  hold  out  a  hand  to  a 
drowning  man." 

"I  am  humbly  grateful  for  your  tender  solicitude," 
cried  Litvinov  passionately,  "but  I  am  not  in  the  least 
in  need  of  it,  and  all  the  phrases  about  the  ruin  of  inex- 
perienced young  men  wrought  by  society  women,  about 
the  immorality  of  fashionable  society,  and  so  on,  I  look 
upon  merely  as  stock  phrases,  and  indeed  in  a  sense  I 
positively  despise  them ;  and  so  I  beg  you  to  spare  your 
rescuing  arm,  and  to  let  me  drown  in  peace." 

Potugin  again  raised  his  eyes  to  Litvinov.  He  was 
breathing  hard,  his  lips  were  twitching. 


SMOKE  171 

"But  look  at  me,  young  man,"  broke  from  him  at 
last,  and  he  clapped  himself  on  the  breast:  "can  you 
suppose  I  have  anything  in  common  with  the  ordinary, 
self-satisfied  moralist,  a  preacher?  Don't  you  under- 
stand that  simply  from  interest  in  you,  however  strong 
it  might  be,  I  would  never  have  let  fall  a  word,  I 
would  never  have  given  you  grounds  for  reproaching 
me  with  what  I  hate  above  all  things — indiscretion, 
intrusiveness  ?  Don't  you  see  that  this  is  something  of 
a  different  kind  altogether,  that  before  you  is  a  man 
crushed,  utterly  obliterated  by  the  very  passion,  from 
the  results  of  which  he  would  save  you,  and  .  .  .  and 
for  the  same  woman !" 

Litvinov  stepped  back  a  pace. 

"Is  it  possible?  What  did  you  say ?  .  .  .  You  .  .  . 
you  .  .  .  Sozont  Ivanitch?  But  Madame  Byelsky 
.  .  .  that  child?" 

"Ah,  don't  cross-examine  me  ...  Believe  me! 
That  is  a  dark,  terrible  story,  and  I'm  not  going  to  tell 
you  it.  Madame  Byelsky  I  hardly  knew,  that  child  is 
not  mine,  but  I  took  it  all  upon  myself  .  .  .  because 
.  .  .  she  wished  it,  because  it  was  necessary  for  her. 
Why  am  I  here  in  your  hateful  Baden?  And,  in  fact, 
could  you  suppose,  could  you  for  one  instant  imagine, 
that  I'd  have  brought  myself  to  caution  you  out  of 
sympathy  for  you?  I'm  sorry  for  that  sweet,  good 
girl,  your  fiancee,  but  what  have  I  to  do  with  your 
future,  with  you  both?  .  .  .  But  I  am  afraid  for  her 
.  .  .  for  her." 

"You  do  me  great  honor,  Mr.  Potugin,"  began  Lit- 
vinov, "but  since,  according  to  you,  we  are  both  in 
the  same  position,  why  is  it  you  don't  apply  such  ex- 
hortations to  yourself,  and  ought  I  not  to  ascribe  your 
apprehensions  to  another  feeling?" 

"That  is  to  jealousy,  you  mean?    Ah,  young  man, 


172  SMOKE 

young  man,  it's  shameful  of  you  to  shuffle  and  make 
pretences,  it's  shameful  of  you  not  to  realize  what  a 
bitter  sorrow  is  speaking  to  you  now  by  my  lips !  No, 
I  am  not  in  the  same  position  as  you!  I,  I  am  old, 
ridiculous,  an  utterly  harmless  old  fool — but  you !  But 
there's  no  need  to  talk  about  it!  You  would  not  for 
one  second  agree  to  accept  the  position  I  fill,  and  fill 
with  gratitude!  Jealousy?  A  man  is  not  jealous  who 
has  never  had  even  a  drop  of  hope,  and  this  is  not  the 
first  time  it  has  been  my  lot  to  endure  this  feeling.  I 
am  only  afraid  .  .  .  afraid  for  her,  understand  that. 
And  could  I  have  guessed  when  she  sent  me  to  you 
that  the  feeling  of  having  wronged  you — she  owned  to 
feeling  that — would  carry  her  so  far?" 

"But  excuse  me,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  you  seem  to 
know.  .  .  ." 

"I  know  nothing,  and  I  know  everything!  I  know," 
he  added,  turning  away,  "I  know  where  she  was  yes- 
terday. But  there's  no  holding  her  back  now ;  like  a 
stone  set  rolling,  she  must  roll  on  to  the  bottom.  I 
should  be  a  great  idiot  indeed,  if  I  imagined  my  words 
could  hold  you  back  at  once  .  .  .  you,  when  a  woman 
like  that  .  .  .  But  that's  enough  of  this.  I  couldn't 
restrain  myself,  that's  my  whole  excuse.  And  after 
all,  how  can  one  know,  and  why  not  try?  Perhaps, 
you  will  think  again ;  perhaps,  some  word  of  mine  will 
go  to  your  heart,  you  will  not  care  to  ruin  her  and 
yourself,  and  that  innocent  sweet  creature  ...  Ah! 
don't  be  angry,  don't  stamp  about!  What  have  I  to 
fear?  Why  should  I  mince  matters?  It's  not  jealousy 
speaking  in  me,  not  anger  .  .  .  I'm  ready  to  fall  at 
your  feet,  to  beseech  you  .  .  .  Good-by,  though. 
You  needn't  be  afraid,  all  this  will  be  kept  secret.  I 
wished  for  your  good." 

Potugin  strode  off  along  the  avenue  and   quickly 


SMOKE  173 

vanished  in  the  now  falling  darkness.  Litvinov  did 
not  detain  him. 

"A  terrible  dark  story  .  .  ."  Potugin  had  said  to 
Litvinov,  and  would  not  tell  it  ...  Let  us  pass  it  over 
with  a  few  words  only. 

Eight  years  before,  it  had  happened  to  him  to  be 
sent  by  his  department  to  Count  Reisenbach  as  a  tem- 
porary clerk.  It  was  in  the  summer.  Potugin  used  to 
drive  to  his  country  villa  with  papers,  and  be  whole 
days  there  at  a  time.  Irina  was  then  living  at  the 
count's.  She  was  never  haughty  with  people  in  a 
humbler  station,  at  least  she  never  treated  them  super- 
ciliously, and  the  countess  more  than  once  reproved 
her  for  her  excessive  Moscow  familiarity.  Irina  soon 
detected  a  man  of  intelligence  in  the  humble  clerk,  at- 
tired in  the  stiffly  buttoned  frockcoat  that  was  his  uni- 
form. She  used  often  and  eagerly  to  talk  to  him  .  .  . 
while  he  ...  he  fell  in  love  with  her  passionately, 
profoundly,  secretly  .  .  .  Secretly!  So  he  thought. 
The  summer  passed ;  the  count  no  longer  needed  any 
outside  assistance.  Potugin  lost  sight  of  Irina  but  could 
not  forget  her.  Three  years  after,  he  utterly  unexpect- 
edly received  an  invitation,  through  a  third  person,  to 
go  to  a  see  a  lady  slightly  known  to  him.  This  lady  at 
first  was  reluctant  to  speak  out,  but  after  exacting  an 
oath  from  him  to  keep  everything  he  was  going  to 
hear  absolutely  secret,  she  proposed  to  him  ...  to 
marry  a  girl,  who  occupied  a  conspicuous  position  in 
society,  and  for  whom  marriage  had  become  a  neces- 
sity. The  lady  scarcely  ventured  to  hint  at  the  principal 
personage,  and  then  promised  Potugin  money  ...  a 
large  sum  of  money.  Potugin  was  not  offended,  as- 
tonishment stifled  all  feeling  of  anger  in  him;  but  of 
course,  he  point-blank  declined.  Then  the  lady  handed 
him  a  note — from  Irina.  "You  are  a  generous,  noble 


I74  SMOKE 

man,"  she  wrote,  "and  I  know  you  would  do  anything 
for  me;  I  beg  of  you  this  sacrifice.  You  will  save 
one  who  is  very  dear  to  me.  In  saving  her,  you  will 
save  me  too  .  .  .  Do  not  ask  me  how.  I  could  never 
have  brought  myself  to  any  one  with  such  an  en- 
treaty, but  to  you  I  hold  out  my  hands  and  say  to  you, 
do  it  for  my  sake."  Potugin  pondered,  and  said  that 
for  Irina  Pavlovna,  certainly  he  was  ready  to  do  a 
great  deal ;  but  he  should  like  to  hear  her  wishes  from 
her  own  lips.  The  interview  took  place  the  same  even- 
ing ;  it  did  not  last  long,  and  no  one  knew  of  it,  except 
the  same  lady.  Irina  was  no  longer  living  at  Count 
Reisenbach's. 

"What  made  you  think  of  me,  of  all  people?"  Potu- 
gin asked  her. 

She  was  beginning  to  expatiate  on  his  noble  quali- 
ties, but  suddenly  she  stopped.  .  .  . 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  must  be  told  the  truth.  I 
know,  I  know  that  you  love  me;  so  that  was  why  I 
made  up  my  mind  .  .  ."  and  then  she  told  him  every- 
thing. 

Eliza  Byelsky  was  an  orphan ;  her  relations  did  not 
like  her,  and  reckoned  on  her  inheritance  .  .  .  ruin 
was  facing  her.  In  saving  her,  Irina  was  really  doing 
a  service  to  him  who  was  responsible  for  it  all,  and 
who  was  himself  now  standing  in  a  very  close  relation 
to  Irina  .  .  .  Potugin,  without  speaking,  looked  long 
at  Irina,  and  consented.  She  wept,  and  flung  herself 
all  in  tears  on  his  neck.  And  he,  too,  wept  .  .  .  but 
very  different  were  their  tears.  Everything  had  al- 
ready been  made  ready  for  the  secret  marriage,  a 
powerful  hand  removed  all  obstacles.  .  .  .  But  illness 
came  .  .  .  and  then  a  daughter  was  born,  and  then 
the  mother  .  .  .  poisoned  herself.  What  was  to  be 
done  with  the  child?  Potugin  received  it  into  his 


SMOKE  175 

charge,  received  it  from  the  same  hands,  from  tht 
hands  of  Irina. 

A  terrible,  dark  story  ...  Let  us  pass  on,  readers, 
pass  on! 

Over  an  hour  more  passed  before  Litvinov  could 
bring  himself  to  go  back  to  his  hotel.  He  had  almost 
reached  it  when  he  suddenly  heard  steps  behind  him. 
It  seemed  as  though  they  were  following  him  per- 
sistently, and  walking  faster  when  he  quickened  his 
pace.  When  he  moved  under  a  lamp-lost  Litvinov 
turned  round  and  recognized  General  Ratmirov.  In  a 
white  tie,  in  a  fashionable  overcoat,  flung  open,  with 
a  row  of  stars  and  crosses  on  a  golden  chain  in  the 
buttonhole  of  his  dresscoat,  the  general  was  return- 
ing from  dinner,  alone.  His  eyes,  fastened  with  inso- 
lent persistence  on  Litvinov,  expressed  such  contempt 
and  such  hatred,  his  whole  deportment  was  suggestive 
of  such  intense  defiance,  that  Litvinov  thought  it  his 
duty,  stifling  his  wrath,  to  go  to  meet  him,  to  face  a 
"scandal."  But  when  he  was  on  a  level  with  Litvinov, 
the  general's  face  suddenly  changed,  his  habitual  play- 
ful refinement  reappeared  upon  it,  and  his  hand  in  its 
pale  lavender  glove  flourished  his  glossy  hat  high  in 
the  air.  Litvinov  took  off  his  in  silence,  and  each  went 
on  his  way. 

"He  has  noticed  something,  for  certain!"  thought 
Litvinov. 

"If  only  it  were  .  .  .  any  one  else!"  thought  the 
general. 

Tatyana  was  playing  picquet  with  her  aunt  when 
Litvinov  entered  their  room. 

"Well,  I  must  say,  you're  a  pretty  fellow!"  cried 
Kapitolina  Markovna,  and  she  threw  down  her  cards. 
"Our  first  day,  and  he's  lost  for  the  whole  evening! 


1 76  SMOKE 

Here  we've  been  waiting  and  waiting,  and  scolding  and 
scolding  .  .  ." 

"I  said  nothing,  aunt,"  observed  Tatyana. 

"Well,  you're  meekness  itself,  we  all  know!  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed,  sir!  and  you  betrothed 
too!" 

Litvinov  made  some  sort  of  excuse  and  sat  down  to 
the  table. 

"Why  have  you  left  off  your  game  ?"  he  asked  after 
a  brief  silence. 

"Well,  that's  a  nice  question!  We've  been  playing 
cards  from  sheer  dullness,  not  knowing  what  to  do 
with  ourselves  .  .  .  but  now  you've  come." 

"If  you  would  care  to  hear  the  evening  music," 
observed  Litvinov,  "I  should  be  delighted  to  take 
you." 

Kapitolina  Markovna  looked  at  her  niece. 

"Let  us  go,  aunt,  I  am  ready,"  she  said,  "but 
wouldn't  it  be  better  to  stay  at  home?" 

"To  be  sure!  Let  us  have  tea  in  our  own  old 
Moscow  way,  with  the  samovar,  and  have  a  good  chat. 
We've  not  had  a  proper  gossip  yet." 

Litvinov  ordered  tea  to  be  sent  up,  but  the  good 
chat  did  not  come  off.  He  felt  a  continual  gnawing 
of  conscience;  whatever  he  said,  it  always  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  telling  lies  and  Tatyana  was  seeing 
through  it.  Meanwhile  there  was  no  change  to  be 
observed  in  her;  she  behaved  just  as  unconstrainedly 
.  .  .  only  her  look  never  once  rested  upon  Litvinov, 
but  with  a  kind  of  indulgent  timorousness  glided  over 
him,  and  she  was  paler  than  usual. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  asked  her  whether  she  had 
not  a  headache. 

Tatyana  was  at  first  about  to  say  no,  but  after  a 
moment's  thought,  she  said,  "Yes,  a  little." 


SMOKE  177 

"It's  the  journey,"  suggested  Litvinov,  and  he  posi- 
tively blushed  with  shame. 

"Yes,  the  journey,"  repeated  Tatyana,  and  her  eyes 
again  glided  over  him. 

"You  ought  to  rest,  Tanya,  darling." 

"Yes,  I  will  go  to  bed  soon,  aunt." 

On  the  table  lay  a  Guide  des  Voyageurs;  Litvinov 
fell  to  reading  aloud  the  description  of  the  environs  of 
Baden. 

"Quite  so,"  Kapitolina  Markovna  interrupted,  "but 
there's  something  we  mustn't  forget.  I'm  told  linen  is 
very  cheap  here,  so  we  must  be  sure  to  buy  some  for 
the  trousseau." 

Tatyana  dropped  her  eyes. 

"We  have  plenty  of  time,  aunt.  You  never  think  of 
yourself,  but  you  really  ought  to  get  yourself  some 
clothes.  You  see  how  smart  every  one  is  here." 

"Eh,  my  love!  what  would  be  the  good  of  that? 
I'm  not  a  fine  lady!  It  would  be  another  thing  if  I 
were  such  a  beauty  as  your  friend,  Grigory  Mihalitch, 
what  was  her  name?" 

"What  friend?" 

"Why,  that  we  met  to-day." 

"Oh,  she!"  said  Litvinov,  with  feigned  indifference, 
and  again  he  felt  disgust  and  shame.  "No!"  he 
thought,  "to  go  on  like  this  is  impossible." 

He  was  sitting  by  his  betrothed,  while  a  few  inches 
from  her  in  his  side  pocket,  was  Irina's  handker- 
chief. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  went  for  a  minute  into  the 
other  room. 

"Tanya  .  .  ."  said  Litvinov,  with  an  effort.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  day  he  had  called  her  by  that 
name. 

She  turned  towards  him. 


178  SMOKE 

"I  ...  I  have  something  very  important  to  say 
to  you." 

"Oh!  really?   When?   Directly?" 

"No,  to-morrow." 

"Oh!  to-morrow.    Very  well." 

Litvinov's  soul  was  suddenly  filled  with  boundless 
pity.  He  took  Tatyana's  hand  and  kissed  it  humbly, 
like  a  sinner;  her  heart  throbbed  faintly  and  she  felt 
no  happiness. 

In  the  night,  at  two  o'clock,  Kapitolina  Markovna, 
who  was  sleeping  in  the  same  room  with  her  niece, 
suddenly  lifted  up  her  head  and  listened. 

"Tanya,"  she  said,  "you  are  crying?" 

Tatyana  did  not  at  once  answer. 

"No,  aunt,"  sounded  her  gentle  voice,  "I've  caught 
a  cold." 


XX 


"WHY  did  I  say  that  to  her?"  Litvinov  thought  the 
next  morning  as  he  sat  in  his  room  at  the  window. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  vexation:  he  had  said 
that  to  Tatyana  simply  to  cut  himself  off  all  way  of 
retreat.  In  the  window  lay  a  note  from  Irina:  she 
asked  him  to  see  her  at  twelve.  Potugin's  words  in- 
cessantly recurred  to  his  mind,  they  seemed  to  reach 
him  with  a  faint  ill-omened  sound  as  of  a  rumbling 
underground.  He  was  angry  with  himself,  but  could 
not  get  rid  of  them  anyhow.  Some  one  knocked  at 
the  door. 

"Wer  da?"  asked  Litvinov. 

"Ah!  you're  at  home!  open!"  he  heard  Bindasov's 
hoarse  bass. 

The  door  handle  creaked. 

Litvinov  turned  white  with  exasperation. 

"I'm  not  at  home,"  he  declared  sharply. 

"Not  at  home  ?    That's  a  good  joke !" 

"I  tell  you — not  at  home,  get  along." 

"That's  civil!  And  I  came  to  ask  you  for  a  little 
loan,"  grumbled  Bindasov. 

He  walked  off,  however,  tramping  on  his  heels  as 
usual. 

Litvinov  was  all  but  dashing  out  after  him,  he  felt 
such  a  longing  to  throttle  the  hateful  ruffian.  The 
events  of  the  last  few  days  had  unstrung  his  nerves ; 
a  little  more,  and  he  would  have  burst  into  tears.  He 
drank  off  a  glass  of  cold  water,  locked  up  all  the 
179 


i8o  SMOKE 

drawers  in  the  furniture,  he  could  not  have  said  why, 
and  went  to  Tatyana's. 

He  found  her  alone.  Kapitolina  Markovna  had 
gone  out  shopping.  Tatyana  was  sitting  on  the  sofa, 
holding  a  book  in  both  hands.  She  was  not  reading  it, 
and  scarcely  knew  what  book  it  was.  She  did  not  stir, 
but  her  heart  was  beating  quickly  in  her  bosom,  and 
the  little  white  collar  round  her  neck  quivered  visibly 
and  evenly. 

Litvinov  was  confused.  .  .  .  However,  he  sat  down 
by  her,  said  good-morning,  smiled  at  her;  she,  too, 
smiled  at  him  without  speaking.  She  had  bowed  to 
him  when  he  came  in,  bowed  courteously,  not  affection- 
ately, and  she  did  not  glance  at  him.  He  held  out  his 
hand  to  her;  she  gave  him  her  chill  fingers,  but  at 
once  freed  them  again,  and  took  up  the  book.  Lit- 
vinov felt  that  to  begin  the  conversation  with  unim- 
portant subjects  would  be  insulting  Tatyana ;  she  after 
her  custom  made  no  demands,  but  everything  in  her 
said  plainly,  "I  am  waiting,  I  am  waiting."  ...  He 
must  fulfill  his  promise.  But  though  almost  the  whole 
night  he  had  thought  of  nothing  else,  he  had  not  pre- 
pared even  the  first  introductory  words,  and  absolutely 
did  not  know  in  what  way  to  break  this  cruel  silence. 

"Tanya,"  he  began  at  last,  "I  told  you  yesterday 
that  I  have  something  important  to  say  to  you.  I  am 
ready,  only  I  beg  you  beforehand  not  to  be  angry 
against  me,  and  to  rest  assured  that  my  feelings  for 
you  .  .  ." 

He  stopped.  He  caught  his  breath.  Tatyana  still 
did  not  stir,  and  did  not  look  at  him ;  she  only  clutched 
the  book  tighter  than  ever. 

"There  has  always  been,"  Litvinov  went  on,  without 
finishing  the  sentence  he  had  begun,  "there  has  always 
been  perfect  openness  between  us;  I  respect  you  too 


SMOKE  181 

much  to  be  a  hypocrite  with  you ;  I  want  to  prove  to 
you  that  I  know  how  to  value  the  nobleness  and  in- 
dependence of  your  nature,  even  though  .  .  .  though 
of  course  .  .  ." 

"Grigory  Mihalitch,"  began  Tatyana  in  a  measured 
voice  while  a  deathly  pallor  overspread  her  whole 
face,  "I  will  come  to  your  assistance,  you  no  longer 
love  me,  and  you  don't  know  how  to  tell  me  so." 

Litvinov  involuntarily  shuddered. 

"Why?"  ...  he  said,  hardly  intelligibly,  "why 
could  you  suppose?  ...  I  really  don't  under- 
stand .  .  ." 

"What!  isn't  it  the  truth?  Isn't  it  the  truth? — tell 
me,  tell  me." 

Tatyana  turned  quite  round  to  Litvinov;  her  face, 
with  her  hair  brushed  back  from  it,  approached  his 
face,  and  her  eyes,  which  for  so  long  had  not  looked 
at  him,  seemed  to  penetrate  into  his  eyes. 

"Isn't  it  the  truth?"  she  repeated. 

He  said  nothing,  did  not  utter  a  single  sound.  He 
could  not  have  lied  at  that  instant,  even  if  he  had 
known  she  would  believe  him,  and  that  his  lie  would 
save  her;  he  was  not  even  able  to  bear  her  eyes  upon 
him.  Litvinov  said  nothing,  but  she  needed  no  an- 
swer, she  read  the  answer  in  his  very  silence,  in  those 
guilty  downcast  eyes — and  she  turned  away  again  and 
dropped  the  book.  .  .  .  She  had  been  still  uncertain 
till  that  instant,  and  Litvinov  understood  that;  he 
understood  that  she  had  been  still  uncertain — and 
how  hideous,  actually  hideous  was  all  that  he  was 
doing. 

He  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  her. 

"Tanya,"  he  cried,  "if  only  you  knew  how  hard  it 
is  for  me  to  see  you  in  this  position,  how  awful  to  me 
to  think  that  it's  I  ...  I !  My  heart  is  torn  to  pieces. 


182  SMOKE 

I  don't  know  myself,  I  have  lost  myself,  and  you,  and 
everything  .  .  .  Everything  is  shattered,  Tanya, 
everything !  Could  I  dream  that  I  ...  I  should  bring 
such  a  blow  upon  you,  my  best  friend,  my  guardian 
angel?  .  .  .  Could  I  dream  that  we  should  meet  like 
this,  should  spend  such  a  day  as  yesterday !  .  .  ." 

Tatyana  was  trying  to  get  up  and  go  away.  He  held 
her  back  by  the  border  of  her  dress. 

"No,  listen  to  me  a  minute  longer.  You  see  I  am 
on  my  knees  before  you,  but  I  have  not  come  to  beg 
your  forgiveness;  you  cannot,  you  ought  not  to  for- 
give me.  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  your  friend  is 
ruined,  that  he  is  falling  into  the  pit,  and  would  not 
drag  you  down  with  him.  .  .  .  But  save  me  .  .  .no! 
even  you  cannot  save  me.  I  should  push  you  away, 
I  am  ruined,  Tanya,  I  am  ruined  past  all  help." 

Tatyana  looked  at  Litvinov. 

"You  are  ruined  ?"  she  said,  as  though  not  fully  un- 
derstanding him.  "You  are  ruined  ?" 

"Yes,  Tanya,  I  am  ruined.  All  the  past,  all  that  was 
precious,  everything  I  have  lived  for  up  till  now,  is 
ruined  for  me;  everything  is  wretched,  everything  is 
shattered,  and  I  don't  know  what  awaits  me  in  the 
future.  You  said  just  now  that  I  no  longer  loved 
you.  .  .  .  No,  Tanya,  I  have  not  ceased  to  love  you, 
but  a  different,  terrible,  irresistible  passion  has  come 
upon  me,  has  overborne  me.  I  fought  against  it  while 
I  could.  .  .  ." 

Tatyana  got  up,  her  brows  twitched,  her  pale  face 
darkened.  Litvinov,  too,  rose  to  his  feet. 

"You  love  another  woman,"  she  began,  "and  I  guess 
who  she  is.  ...  We  met  her  yesterday,  didn't  we? 
.  .  .  Well,  I  see  what  is  left  for  me  to  do  now.  Since 
you  say  yourself  this  passion  is  unalterable"  .  .  . 
(Tatyana  paused  an  instant,  possibly  she  had  still 


SMOKE  183 

hoped  Litvinov  would  not  let  this  last  word  pass  un- 
challenged, but  he  said  nothing),  "it  only  remains  for 
me  to  give  you  back  .  .  .  your  word." 

Litvinov  bent  his  head,  as  though  submissively  re- 
ceiving a  well-deserved  blow. 

"You  have  every  right  to  be  angry  with  me,"  he 
said.  "You  have  every  right  to  reproach  me  for 
feebleness  .  .  .  for  deceit." 

Tatyana  looked  at  him  again. 

"I  have  not  reproached  you,  Litvinov,  I  don't  blame 
you.  I  agree  with  you:  the  bitterest  truth  is  better 
than  what  went  on  yesterday.  What  sort  of  a  life 
could  ours  have  been  now!" 

"What  sort  of  a  life  will  mine  be  now!"  echoed 
mournfully  in  Litvinov's  soul. 

Tatyana  went  towards  the  door  of  the  bedroom. 

"I  will  ask  you  to  leave  me  alone  for  a  little  time, 
rrigory  Mihalitch — we  will  see  each  other  again,  we 
will  talk  again.  All  this  has  been  so  unexpected  I 
v.-ant  to  collect  myself  a  little  .  .  .  leave  me  alone  .  .  . 
spare  my  pride.  We  shall  see  each  other  again." 

And  uttering  these  words,  Tatyana  hurriedly  with- 
drew and  locked  the  door  after  her. 

Litvinov  went  out  into  the  street  like  a  man  dazed 
and  stunned ;  in  the  very  depths  of  his  heart  something 
dark  and  bitter  lay  hid,  such  a  sensation  must  a  man 
feel  who  has  murdered  another ;  and  at  the  same  time 
he  felt  easier  as  though  he  had  at  last  flung  off  a  hated 
load.  Tatyana's  magnanimity  had  crushed  him,  he 
felt  vividly  all  that  he  had  lost  .  .  .  and  yet  ?  with  his 
regret  was  mingled  irritation;  he  yearned  towards 
Irina  as  to  the  sole  refuge  left  him,  and  felt  bitter 
against  her.  For  some  time  Litvinov's  feelings  had 
been  every  day  growing  more  violent  and  more  com- 
plex; this  complexity  tortured  him,  exasperated  him. 


i84  SMOKE 

he  was  lost  in  this  chaos.  He  thirsted  for  one  thing ; 
to  get  out  at  last  on  to  the  path,  whatever  it  might 
be,  if  only  not  to  wander  longer  in  this  incompre- 
hensible half-darkness.  Practical  people  of  Litvinov's 
sort  ought  never  to  be  carried  away  by  passion,  it  de- 
stroys the  very  meaning  of  their  lives.  .  .  .  But  na- 
ture cares  nothing  for  logic,  our  human  logic ;  she  has 
her  own,  which  we  do  not  recognize  and  do  not  ac- 
knowledge till  we  are  crushed  under  its  wheel. 

On  parting  from  Tatyana,  Litvinov  held  one  thought 
in  his  mind,  to  see  Irina ;  he  set  off,  indeed,  to  see  her. 
But  the  general  was  at  home,  so  at  least  the  porter  told 
him,  and  he  did  not  care  to  go  in,  he  did  not  feel  him- 
self capable  of  hypocrisy,  and  he  moved  slowly  off 
towards  the  Konversation  Hall.  Litvinov's  incapacity 
for  hypocrisy  was  evident  that  day  to  both  Voroshilov 
and  Pishtchalkin,  who  happened  to  meet  him ;  he  sim- 
ply blurted  out  to  the  former  that  he  was  empty  as  a 
drum ;  to  the  latter  that  he  bored  every  one  to  extinc- 
tion; it  was  lucky  indeed  that  Bindasov  did  not  come 
across  him ;  there  would  certainly  have  been  a  "grosser 
Scandal."  Both  the  young  men  were  stupefied ;  Voro- 
shilov went  so  far  as  to  ask  himself  whether  his  honor 
as  an  officer  did  not  demand  satisfaction?  But  like 
Gogol's  lieutenant,  Pirogov,  he  calmed  himself  with 
bread  and  butter  in  a  cafe.  Litvinov  caught  sight  in 
the  distance  of  Kapitolina  Markovna  running  busily 
from  shop  to  shop  in  her  striped  mantle.  .  .  .  He  felt 
ashamed  to  face  the  good,  absurd,  generous  old  lady. 
Then  he  recalled  Potugin,  their  conversation  yester- 
day. .  .  .  Then  something  was  wafted  to  him,  some- 
thing intangible  and  unmistakable :  if  a  falling  shadow 
shed  a  fragrance,  it  could  not  be  more  elusive,  but  he 
felt  at  once  that  it  was  Irina  near  him,  and  in  fact 
she  appeared  a  few  paces  from  him,  arm-in-arm  with 


SMOKE  185 

another  lady;  their  eyes  met  at  once.  Irina  probably 
noticed  something  peculiar  in  the  expression  of  Lit- 
vinov's  face ;  she  stopped  before  a  shop,  in  which  a 
number  of  tiny  wooden  clocks  of  Black  Forest  make 
were  exhibited,  and  summoning  him  by  a  motion  of 
her  head,  she  pointed  to  one  of  these  clocks,  and  calling 
upon  him  to  admire  a  charming  clock-face  with  a 
painted  cuckoo  above  it,  she  said,  not  in  a  whisper,  but 
as  though  finishing  a  phrase  begun,  in  her  ordinary 
tone  of  voice,  much  less  likely  to  attract  the  attention 
of  outsiders,  "Come  in  an  hour's  time,  I  shall  be 
alone." 

But  at  this  moment  the  renowned  lady-killer  Mon- 
sieur Verdier  swooped  down  upon  her,  and  began  to 
fall  into  ecstasies  over  the  color,  feuille  morte,  of  her 
gown  and  the  low-crowned  Spanish  hat  she  wore  tilted 
almost  down  to  her  eyebrows.  .  .  .  Litvinov  vanished 
in  the  crowd. 


XXI 

"GRIGORY,"  Irina  was  saying  to  him  two  hours  later, 
as  she  sat  beside  him  on  the  sofa,  and  laid  both  hands 
on  his  shoulder,  "what  is  the  matter  with  you?  Tell 
me  now  quickly,  while  we're  alone." 

"The  matter  with  me?"  said  Litvinov.  "I  am  happy, 
happy,  that's  what's  the  matter  with  me." 

Irina  looked  down,  smiled,  sighed. 

"That's  not  an  answer  to  my  question,  my  dear 
one." 

Litvinov  grew  thoughtful. 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you  then  .  .  .  since  you  insist 
positively  on  it"  (Irina  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  trem- 
bled slightly),  "I  have  told  everything  to-day  to  my 
betrothed." 

"What,  everything?    You  mentioned  me?" 

Litvinov  fairly  threw  up  his  arms. 

"Irina,  for  God's  sake,  how  could  such  an  idea  en- 
ter your  head !  that  I " 

"There,  forgive  me  ...  forgive  me.  What  did 
you  say?" 

"I  told  her  that  I  no  longer  loved  her." 

"She  asked  why?" 

"I  did  not  disguise  the  fact  that  I  loved  another 
woman,  and  that  we  must  part." 

"Ah  .  .  .  and  what  did  she  do?     Agreed?" 

"O  Irina!  what  a  girl  she  is!  She  was  all  self- 
sacrifice,  all  generosity!" 

"I've  no  doubt,  I've  no  doubt  .  .  .  there  was  noth- 
ing else  for  her  to  do,  though." 

186 


SMOKE  187 

"And  not  one  reproach,  not  one  hard  word  to  me, 
who  have  spoiled  her  whole  life,  deceived  her,  piti- 
lessly flung  her  over.  .  .  ." 

Irina  scrutinized  her  finger  nails. 

"Tell  me,  Grigory  .  .  .  did  she  love  you?" 

"Yes,  Irina,  she  loved  me." 

Irina  was  silent  a  minute,  she  straightened  her 
dress. 

"I  must  confess,"  she  began,  "I  don't  quite  under- 
stand what  induced  you  to  explain  matters  to  her." 

"What  induced  me,  Irina!  Would  you  have  liked 
me  to  lie,  to  be  a  hypocrite  to  her,  that  pure  soul  ?  or 
did  you  suppose " 

"I  supposed  nothing,"  Irina  interrupted.  "I  must 
admit  I  have  thought  very  little  about  her.  I  don't 
know  how  to  think  of  two  people  at  once." 

"That  is,  you  mean " 

"Well,  and  so  what  then?  Is  she  going  away,  that 
pure  soul  ?"  Irina  interrupted  a  second  time. 

"I  know  nothing,"  answered  Litvinov.  "I  am  to  see 
her  again.  But  she  will  not  stay." 

"Ah!  bon  voyage!" 

"No,  she  will  not  stay.  But  I'm  not  thinking  of  hex 
either,  now,  I  am  thinking  of  what  you  said  to  me, 
what  you  have  promised  me." 

Irina  looked  up  at  him  from  under  her  eyelids, 

"Ungrateful  one!  aren't  you  content  yet?" 

"No,  Irina,  I'm  not  content.  You  have  made  me 
happy,  but  I'm  not  content,  and  you  understand  me." 

"That  is,  I " 

"Yes,  you  understand  me.  Remember  your  words, 
remember  what  you  wrote  to  me.  I  can't  share  you 
with  others;  no,  no,  I  can't  consent  to  the  pitiful  role 
of  secret  lover;  not  my  life  alone,  this  other  life,  too,  I 
have  flung  at  your  feet,  I  have  renounced  everything, 


1 88  SMOKE 

I  have  crushed  it  all  to  dust,  without  compunction 
and  beyond  recall;  but  in  return  I  trust,  I  firmly  be- 
lieve, that  you,  too,  will  keep  your  promise,  and  unite 
your  lot  with  mine  for  ever." 

"You  want  me  to  run  away  with  you  ?  I  am  ready 
.  .  ."  (Litvinov  bent  down  to  her  hands  in  ecstasy.) 
"I  am  ready.  I  will  not  go  back  from  my  word.  But 
have  you  yourself  thought  over  all  the  difficulties — 
have  you  made  preparations?" 

"I?  I  have  not  had  time  yet  to  think  over  or  pre- 
pare anything,  but  only  say  yes,  let  me  act,  and  before 
a  month  is  over  ..." 

"A  month !  we  start  for  Italy  in  a  fortnight." 

"A  fortnight,  then,  is  enough  for  me.  O  Irina,  you 
seem  to  take  my  proposition  coldly ;  perhaps  it  seems 
unpractical  to  you,  but  I  am  not  a  boy,  I  am  not  used 
to  comforting  myself  with  dreams,  I  know  what  a 
tremendous  step  this  is,  I  know  what  a  responsibility  I 
am  taking  on  myself ;  but  I  can  see  no  other  course. 
Think  of  it,  I  must  break  every  tie  with  the  past,  if 
only  not  to  be  a  contemptible  liar  in  the  eyes  of  the 
girl  I  have  sacrificed  for  you!" 

Irina  drew  herself  up  suddenly  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Grigory  Mihalitch!  If  I 
decide,  if  I  run  away,  then  it  will  at  least  be  with  a 
man  who  does  it  for  my  sake,  for  my  sake  simply, 
and  not  in  order  that  he  may  not  degrade  himself  in 
the  good  opinion  of  a  phlegmatic  young  person,  with 
milk  and  water,  du  lait  coupe  instead  of  blood,  in  her 
veins!  And  I  must  tell  you,  too,  it's  the  first  time,  I 
confess,  that  it's  been  my  lot  to  hear  that  the  man  I 
honor  with  my  regard  is  deserving  of  commiseration, 
playing  a  pitiful  part!  I  know  a  far  more  pitiful  part, 
the  part  of  a  man  who  doesn't  know  what  is  going  on 
in  his  own  heart!" 


SMOKE  189 

Litvinov  drew  himself  up  in  his  turn. 

"Irina,"  he  was  beginning 

But  all  at  once  she  clapped  both  hands  to  her  fore- 
head, and  with  a  convulsive  motion,  flinging  herself  on 
his  breast,  she  embraced  him  with  force  beyond  a 
woman's. 

"Forgive  me,  forgive  me,"  she  began,  with  a  shak- 
ing voice,  "forgive  me,  Grigory!  You  see  how  cor- 
rupted I  am,  how  horrid  I  am,  how  jealous  and 
wicked!  You  see  how  I  need  your  aid,  your  indul- 
gence! Yes,  save  me,  drag  me  out  of  this  mire,  before 
I  am  quite  ruined !  Yes,  let  us  run  away,  let  us  run 
away  from  these  people,  from  this  society  to  some  far 
off,  fair,  free  country!  Perhaps  your  Irina  will  at 
last  be  worthier  of  the  sacrifices  you  are  making  for 
her !  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  forgive  me,  my  sweet, 
and  know  that  I  will  do  everything  you  command,  I 
will  go  anywhere  you  will  take  me !" 

Litvinov's  heart  was  in  a  turmoil.  Irina  clung  closer 
than  before  to  him  with  all  her  youthful  supple  body. 
He  bent  over  her  fragrant,  disordered  tresses,  and  in 
an  intoxication  of  gratitude  and  ecstasy,  he  hardly 
dared  to  caress  them  with  his  hand,  he  hardly  touched 
them  with  his  lips. 

"Irina,  Irina,"  he  repeated, — "my  angel.  .  .  ." 

She  suddenly  raised  her  head,  listened.  .  .  . 

"It's  my  husband's  step,  ...  he  has  gone  into  his 
room,"  she  whispered,  and,  moving  hurriedly  away, 
she  crossed  over  to  another  armchair.  Litvinov  was 
getting  up.  ...  "What  are  you  doing?"  she  went  on 
in  the  same  whisper;  "you  must  stay,  he  suspects  you 
as  it  is.  Or  are  you  afraid  of  him?"  She  did  not  take 
her  eyes  off  the  door.  "Yes,  it's  he ;  he  will  come  in 
here  directly.  Tell  me  something,  talk  to  me."  Lit- 
vinov could  not  at  once  recover  himself  and  was  si- 


190  SMOKE 

lent.  "Aren't  you  going  to  the  theater  to-morrow?" 
she  uttered  aloud.  "They're  giving  Le  Verre  d'Eau, 
an  old-fashioned  piece,  and  Plessy  is  awfully  affected. 
.  .  .  We're  as  though  we  were  in  a  perfect  fever,"  she 
added,  dropping  her  voice.  "We  can't  do  anything 
like  this ;  we  must  think  things  over  well.  I  ought  to 
warn  you  that  all  my  money  is  in  his  hands ;  mais  j'ai 
mes  bijoux.  We'll  go  to  Spain,  would  you  like  that?" 
She  raised  her  voice  again.  "Why  is  it  all  actresses 
get  so  fat?  Madeleine  Brohan  for  instance.  ...  Do 
talk,  don't  sit  so  silent.  My  head  is  going  round.  But 
you,  you  must  not  doubt  me.  ...  I  will  let  you  know 
where  to  come  to-morrow.  Only  it  was  a  mistake  to 
have  told  that  young  lady.  .  .  .  Ah,  mais  c'est  char- 
niant!"  she  cried  suddenly,  and  with  a  nervous  laugh, 
she  tore  the  lace  edge  of  her  handkerchief. 

"May  I  come  in?"  asked  Ratmirov  from  the  other 
room. 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes." 

The  door  opened,  and  in  the  doorway  appeared  the 
general.  He  scowled  on  seeing  Litvinov ;  however,  he 
bowed  to  them,  that  is  to  say,  he  bent  the  upper  por- 
tion of  his  person. 

"I  did  not  know  you  had  a  visitor,"  he  said:  "je 
vous  demande  pardon  de  mon  indiscretion.  So  you 
still  find  Baden  entertaining,  M'sieu — Litvinov  ?" 

Ratmirov  always  uttered  Litvinov's  surname  with 
hesitation,  every  time,  as  though  he  had  forgotten  it, 
and  could  not  at  once  recall  it.  ...  In  this  way,  as 
well  as  by  the  lofty  flourish  of  his  hat  in  saluting 
him,  he  meant  to  insult  his  pride. 

"I  am  not  bored  here,  m'sieu  le  general." 

"Really?  Well,  I  find  Baden  fearfully  boring.  We 
are  soon  going  away,  are  we  not,  Irina  Pavlovna? 


SMOKE 


191 


Asses  de  Bade  comme  fa.  By  the  way,  I've  won  you 
five  hundred  francs  to-day." 

Irina  stretched  out  her  hand  coquettishly. 

"Where  are  they?  Please  let  me  have  them  for  pin- 
money." 

"You  shall  have  them,  you  shall  have  them.  .  .  . 
You  are  going,  M'sieu — Litvinov?" 

"Yes,  I  am  going,  as  you  see." 

Ratmirov  again  bent  his  body. 

"Till  we  meet  again !" 

"Good-by,  Grigory  Mihalitch,"  said  Irina.  "I  will 
keep  my  promise." 

"What  is  that?  May  I  be  inquisitive?"  her  husband 
queried. 

Irina  smiled. 

"No,  it  was  only  .  .  .  something  we've  been  talk- 
ing of.  C'est  a  propos  du  voyage  .  .  .  ou  il  vous 
plaira.  You  know — Stael's  book?" 

"Ah!  ah!  to  be  sure,  I  know.  Charming  illustra- 
tions." 

Ratmirov  seemed  on  the  best  of  terms  with  his  wife; 
he  called  her  by  her  pet  name  in  addressing  her. 


XXII 

"BETTER  not  think  now,  really,"  Litvinov  repeated, 
as  he  strode  along  the  street,  feeling  that  the  inward 
riot  was  rising  up  again  in  him.  "The  thing's  decided. 
She  will  keep  her  promise,  and  it  only  remains  for  me 
to  take  all  necessary  steps.  .  .  .  Yet  she  hesitates,  it 
seems."  .  .  .  He  shook  his  head.  His  own  designs 
struck  even  his  own  imagination  in  a  strange  light; 
there  was  a  smack  of  artificiality,  of  unreality  about 
them.  One  cannot  dwell  long  upon  the  same  thoughts ; 
they  gradually  shift  like  the  bits  of  glass  in  a  kalei- 
doscope .  .  .  one  peeps  in,  and  already  the  shapes 
before  one's  eyes  are  utterly  different.  A  sensation  of 
intense  weariness  overcame  Litvinov.  .  .  .  If  he  could 
for  one  short  hour  but  rest!  .  .  .  But  Tanya?  He 
started,  and,  without  reflecting  even,  turned  submis- 
sively homewards,  merely  struck  by  the  idea,  that  this 
day  was  tossing  him  like  a  ball  from  one  to  the  other. 
.  .  .  No  matter ;  he  must  make  an  end.  He  went  back 
to  his  hotel,  and  with  the  same  submissiveness,  insen- 
sibility, numbness,  without  hesitation  or  delay,  he  went 
to  see  Tatyana. 

He  was  met  by  Kapitolina  Markovna.  From  the 
first  glance  at  her,  he  knew  that  she  knew  about  it 
all;  the  poor  maiden  lady's  eyes  were  swollen  with 
weeping,  and  her  flushed  face,  fringed  with  her  dis- 
hevelled white  locks,  expressed  dismay  and  an  agony 
of  indignation,  sorrow,  and  boundless  amazement. 
She  was  on  the  point  of  rushing  up  to  Litvinov,  but 
192 


SMOKE  193 

she  stopped  short,  and,  biting  her  quivering  lips,  she 
looked  at  him  as  though  she  would  supplicate  him, 
and  kill  him,  and  assure  herself  that  it  was  a  dream, 
a  senseless,  impossible  thing,  wasn't  it? 

"Here  you  .  .  .  you  are  come,"  she  began.  .  .  . 
The  door  from  the  next  room  opened  instantaneously, 
and  with  a  light  tread  Tatyana  came  in ;  she  was  of  a 
transparent  pallor,  but  she  was  quite  calm. 

She  gently  put  one  arm  round  her  aunt  and  made 
her  sit  down  beside  her. 

"You  sit  down  too,  Grigory  Mihalitch,"  she  said  to 
Litvinov,  who  was  standing  like  one  distraught  at  the 
door.  "I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  once  more.  I  have 
informed  auntie  of  your  decision,  our  common  deci- 
sion ;  she  fully  shares  it  and  approves  of  it.  ...  With- 
out mutual  love  there  can  be  no  happiness,  mutual 
esteem  alone  is  not  enough"  (at  the  word  "esteem" 
Litvinov  involuntarily  looked  down)  "and  better  to 
separate  now,  than  to  repent  later.  Isn't  it,  aunt?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  began  Kapitolina  Markovna,  "of 
course,  Tanya,  darling,  the  man  who  does  not  know 
how  to  appreciate  you  .  .  .  who  could  bring  him- 
self  " 

"Aunt,  aunt,"  Tatyana  interrupted,  "remember 
what  you  promised  me.  You  always  told  me  your- 
self:  truth,  Tatyana,  truth  before  everything— and  in- 
dependence. Well,  truth's  not  always  sweet,  nor  inde- 
pendence either ;  or  else  where  would  be  the  virtue  of 
it?" 

She  kissed  Kapitolina  Markovna  on  her  white  hair, 
and  turning  to  Litvinov,  she  went  on : 

"We  propose,  aunt  and  I,  leaving  Baden.  ...  I 
think  it  will  be  more  comfortable  so  for  all  of 
us.' 

When  do  you  think  of  going?"  Litvinov  said  thick- 


194  SMOKE 

ly.  He  remembered  that  Irina  had  said  the  very  same 
words  to  him  not  long  before. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  was  darting  forward,  but  Tat- 
yana  held  her  back,  with  a  caressing  touch  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Probably  soon,  very  soon." 

"And  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  where  you  intend 
going?"  Litvinov  said  in  the  same  voice. 

"First  to  Dresden,  then  probably  to  Russia." 

"But  what  can  you  want  to  know  that  for  now, 
Grigory  Mihalitch?"  .  .  .  cried  Kapitolina  Mar- 
kovna. 

"Aunt,  aunt,"  Tatyana  interposed  again.  A  brief 
silence  followed. 

"Tatyana  Petrovna,"  began  Litvinov,  "you  know 
how  agonizingly  painful  and  bitter  my  feelings  must 
be  at  this  instant." 

Tatyana  got  up. 

"Grigory  Mihalitch,"  she  said,  "we  will  not  talk 
about  that  ...  if  you  please,  I  beg  you  for  my  sake, 
if  not  for  your  own.  I  have  known  you  long  enough, 
and  I  can  very  well  imagine  what  you  must  be  feeling 
now.  But  what's  the  use  of  talking,  of  touching  a 
sore"  (she  stopped;  it  was  clear  she  wanted  to  stem 
the  emotion  rushing  upon  her,  to  swallow  the  rising 
tears;  she  succeeded) — "why  fret  a  sore  we  cannot 
heal?  Leave  that  to  time.  And  now  I  have  to  ask  a 
service  of  you,  Grigory  Mihalitch;  if  you  will  be  so 
good,  I  will  give  you  a  letter  directly:  take  it  to  the 
post  yourself,  it  is  rather  important,  but  aunt  and  I 
have  no  time  now.  ...  I  shall  be  much  obliged  to 
you.  Wait  a  minute.  ...  I  will  bring  it  direct- 
ly.  .  .  ." 

In  the  doorway  Tatyana  glanced  uneasily  at  Kapito- 
lina Markovna;  but  she  was  sitting  with  such  dignity 


SMOKE 


195 


and  decorum,  with  such  a  severe  expression  on  her 
knitted  brows  and  tightly  compressed  lips,  that  Tat- 
yana  merely  gave  her  a  significant  nod  and  went 
out. 

But  scarcely  had  the  door  closed  behind  her.  when 
every  trace  of  dignity  and  severity  instantaneously 
vanished  from  Kapitolina  Markovna's  face;  she  got 
tip,  ran  on  tiptoe  up  to  Litvinov,  and  all  hunched 
together  and  trying  to  look  him  in  the  face,  she  began 
in  a  quaking  tearful  whisper: 

"Good  God,"  she  said,  "Grigory  Mihalitch,  what 
does  it  mean?  is  it  a  dream  or  what?  You  give  up 
Tanya,  you  tired  of  her,  you  breaking  your  word! 
You  doing  this,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  you  on  whom  we 
all  counted  as  if  you  were  a  stone  wall!  You?  you? 
you,  Grisha?"  .  .  .  Kapitolina  Markovna  stopped. 
"Why,  you  will  kill  her,  Grigory  Mihalitch,"  she  went 
on,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  while  her  tears 
fairly  coursed  in  fine  drops  over  her  cheeks.  "You 
mustn't  judge  by  her  bearing  up  now,  you  know  her 
character!  She  never  complains;  she  does  not  think 
<>f  herself,  so  others  must  think  of  her!  She  keeps 
saying  to  me,  'Aunt,  we  must  save  our  dignity!'  but 
what's  dignity,  when  I  foresee  death,  death  before 
us?"  .  .  .  Tatyana's  chair  creaked  in  the  next  room. 
"Yes,  I  foresee  death,"  the  old  lady  went  on,  still 
more  softly.  "And  how  can  such  a  thing  have  come 
about?  Is  it  witchcraft,  or  what?  It's  not  long  since 
you  were  writing  her  the  tenderest  letters.  And,  in 
raft,  can  an  honest  man  act  like  this?  I'm  a  woman, 
free,  as  you  know,  from  prejudice  of  any  sort,  esprit 
fort,  and  I  have  given  Tanya,  too,  the  same  sort  of 
education,  she,  too.  has  a  free  mind.  .  .  ." 

"Aunt !"  came  Tatyana's  voice  from  the  next  room. 

"But   one's   word    of    honor    is    a   duty,    Grigory 


196  SMOKE 

Mihalitch,  especially  for  people  of  your,  of  my  prin- 
ciples! If  we're  not  going  to  recognize  duty,  what  is 
left  us?  This  cannot  be  broken  off  in  this  way,  at 
your  whim,  without  regard  to  what  may  happen  to 
another!  It's  unprincipled  .  .  .  yes,  it's  a  crime;  a 
strange  sort  of  freedom!" 

"Aunt,  come  here  please,"  was  heard  again. 

"I'm  coming,  my  love,  I'm  coming  .  .  ."  Kapito- 
lina  Markovna  clutched  at  Litvinov's  hand. — "I  see 
you  are  angry  Grigory  Milhalitch."  .  .  .  ("Me!  me 
angry?"  he  wanted  to  exclaim,  but  his  tongue  was 
dumb. )  "I  don't  want  to  make  you  angry — oh,  really, 
quite  the  contrary!  I've  come  even  to  entreat  you; 
think  again  while  there  is  time;  don't  destroy  her, 
don't  destroy  your  own  happiness,  she  will  still  trust 
you,  Grisha,  she  will  believe  in  you,  nothing  is  lost 
yet ;  why,  she  loves  you  as  no  one  will  ever  love  you ! 
Leave  this  hateful  Baden-Baden,  let  us  go  away  to- 
gether, only  throw  off  this  enchantment,  and,  above 
all,  have  pity,  have  pity " 

"Aunt !"  called  Tatyana,  with  a  shade  of  impatience 
in  her  voice. 

But  Kapitolina  Markovna  did  not  hear  her. 

"Only  say  'yes,'  "  she  repeated  to  Litvinov ;  "and  I 
will  still  make  everything  smooth.  .  .  .  You  need  only 
nod  your  head  to  me,  just  one  little  nod  like  this." 

Litvinov  would  gladly,  he  felt,  have  died  at  that 
instant ;  but  the  word  "yes"  he  did  not  utter,  and  he  did 
not  nod  his  head. 

Tatyana  reappeared  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 
Kapitolina  Markovna  at  once  darted  away  from  Lit- 
vinov, and,  averting  her  face,  bent  low  over  the  table, 
as  though  she  were  looking  over  the  bills  and  papers 
that  lay  on  it. 

Tatyana  went  up  to  Litvinov. 


SMOKE  197 

"Here,"  she  said,  "is  the  letter  I  spoke  of.  ...  You 
will  go  to  the  post  at  once  with  it,  won't  you?" 

Litvinov  raised  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Before  him,  really, 
stood  his  judge.  Tatyana  struck  him  as  taller,  slen- 
derer; her  face,  shining  with  unwonted  beauty,  had 
the  stony  grandeur  of  a  statute's;  her  bosom  did  not 
heave,  and  her  gown,  of  one  color  and  straight  as  a 
Greek  chiton,  fell  in  the  long,  unbroken  folds  of  marble 
drapery  to  her  feet,  which  were  hidden  by  it.  Tat- 
yana was  looking  straight  before  her,  only  at  Litvinov; 
her  cold,  calm  gaze,  too,  was  the  gaze  of  a  statue.  He 
read  his  sentence  in  it;  he  bowed,  took  a  letter  from 
the  hand  held  out  so  immovably  to  him,  and  silently 
withdrew. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  ran  to  Tatyana ;  but  the  latter 
turned  off  her  embraces  and  dropped  her  eyes ;  a  flush 
of  color  spread  over  her  face,  and  with  the  words, 
"and  now,  the  sooner  the  better,"  she  went  into  the 
bedroom.  Kapitolina  Markovna  followed  her  with 
hanging  head. 

The  letter,  entrusted  to  Litvinov  by  Tatyana,  was 
addressed  to  one  of  her  Dresden  friends — a  German 
lady — who  let  small  furnished  apartments.  Litvinov 
dropped  the  letter  into  the  post-box,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  as  though  with  that  tiny  scrap  of  paper  he  was 
dropping  all  his  past,  all  his  life  into  the  tomb.  He 
went  out  of  the  town,  and  strolled  a  long  time  by  nar- 
row paths  between  vineyards;  he  could  not  shake  off 
the  persistent  sensation  of  contempt  for  himself,  like 
the  importunate  buzzing  of  flies  in  summer:  an  un- 
enviable part,  indeed,  he  had  played  in  the  last  inter- 
view. .  .  .  And  when  he  went  back  to  his  hotel,  and 
after  a  little  time  inquired  about  the  ladies,  he  was 
told  that  immediately  after  he  had  gone  out,  they  had 
given  orders  to  be  driven  to  the  railway  station,  and 


io£  SMOKE 

had  departed  by  the  mail  train — to  what  destination 
was  not  known.  Their  things  had  been  packed  and 
their  bills  paid  ever  since  the  morning.  Tatyana  had 
asked  Titvinov  to  take  her  letter  to  the  post,  obviously 
with  the  object  of  getting  him  out  of  the  way.  He 
ventured  to  ask  the  hall-porter  whether  the  ladies  had 
left  any  letters  for  him,  but  the  porter  replied  in  the 
negative,  and  looked  amazed,  even;  it  was  clear  that 
this  sudden  exit  from  rooms  taken  for  a  week  struck 
him,  too,  as  strange  and  dubious.  Litvinov  turned 
his  back  on  him,  and  locked  himself  up  in  his  room. 

He  did  not  leave  it  till  the  following  day :  the  greater 
part  of  the  night  he  was  sitting  at  the  table,  writing, 
and  tearing  what  he  had  written.  .  .  .  The  dawn  was 
already  beginning  when  he  finished  his  task — it  was  a 
letter  to  Irina. 


XXIII 

THIS  was  what  was  in  this  letter  to  Irina : 

"My  betrothed  went  away  yesterday ;  we  shall  never 
see  each  other  again.  .  .  .  I  do  not  know  even  for  cer- 
tain where  she  is  going  to  live.  With  her,  she  takes 
all  that  till  now  seemed  precious  and  desirable  to  me; 
all  my  previous  ideas,  my  plans,  my  intentions,  have 
gone  with  her;  my  labors,  even,  are  wasted,  my  work 
of  years  ends  in  nothing,  all  my  pursuits  have  no 
meaning,  no  applicability ;  all  that  is  dead ;  myself,  my 
old  self,  is  dead  and  buried  since  yesterday.  I  feel,  I 
see,  I  know  this  clearly  ...  far  am  I  from  regretting 
this.  Not  to  lament  of  it,  have  I  begun  upon  this  to 
you.  ...  As  though  I  could  complain  when  you  love 
me,  Irina !  I  wanted  only  to  tell  you  that,  of  all  this 
dead  past,  all  those  hopes  and  efforts,  turned  to  smoke 
and  ashes,  there  is  only  one  thing  left  living,  invin- 
cible, my  love  for  you.  Except  that  love,  nothing  is 
left  for  me ;  to  say  it  is  the  sole  thing  precious  to  me, 
would  be  too  little ;  I  live  wholly  in  that  love ;  that  love 
is  my  whole  being ;  in  it  are  my  future,  my  career,  my 
vocation,  my  country !  You  know  me,  Irina ;  you  know 
that  fine  talk  of  any  sort  is  foreign  to  my  nature, 
hateful  to  me,  and  however  strong  the  words  in  which 
I  try  to  express  my  feelings,  you  will  have  no  doubts 
of  their  sincerity,  you  will  not  suppose  them  exag- 
gerated. I'm  not  a  boy.  in  the  impulse  of  momentary 
ecstasy,  lisping  unreflecting  vows  to  you,  but  a  man  of 
199 


200  SMOKE 

matured  age — simply  and  plainly,  almost  with  terror, 
telling  you  what  he  has  recognized  for  unmistakable 
truth.  Yes,  your  love  has  replaced  everything  for  me 
— everything,  everything!  Judge  for  yourself:  can  I 
leave  this  my  all  in  the  hands  of  another?  can  I  let 
him  dispose  of  you?  You — you  will  belong  to  him, 
my  whole  being,  my  heart's  blood  will  belong  to  him — 
while  I  myself  .  .  .  where  am  I?  what  am  I?  An 
outsider — an  onlooker  .  .  .  looking  on  at  my  own 
life!  No,  that's  impossible,  impossible!  To  share,  to 
share  in  secret  that  without  which  it's  useless,  impos- 
sible to  live  .  .  .  that's  deceit  and  death.  I  know  how 
great  a  sacrifice  I  am  asking  of  you,  without  any  sort 
of  right  to  it;  indeed,  what  can  give  one  a  right  to 
sacrifice  ?  But  I  am  not  acting  thus  from  egoism :  an 
egoist  would  find  it  easier  and  smoother  not  to  raise 
this  question  at  all.  Yes,  my  demands  are  difficult, 
and  I  am  not  surprised  that  they  alarm  you.  The 
people  among  whom  you  have  to  live  are  hateful  t$ 
you,  you  are  sick  of  society,  but  are  you  strong  enough 
to  throw  up  that  society?  to  trample  on  the  success  it 
has  crowned  you  with  ?  to  rouse  public  opinion  against 
you — the  opinion  of  these  hateful  people  ?  Ask  your- 
self, Irina,  don't  take  a  burden  upon  you  greater  than 
you  can  bear.  I  don't  want  to  reproach  you;  but  re- 
member: once  already  you  could  not  hold  out  against 
temptation.  I  can  give  you  so  little  in  return  for  all 
you  are  losing.  Hear  my  last  word :  if  you  don't  feel 
capable  to-morrow,  to-day  even,  of  leaving  all  and 
following  me — you  see  how  boldly  I  speak,  how  little  I 
spare  myself, — if  you  are  frightened  at  the  uncertainty 
of  the  future,  and  estrangement  and  solitude  and  the 
censure  of  men,  if  you  cannot  rely  on  yourself,  in  fact, 
tell  me  so  openly  and  without  delay,  and  I  will  go 
away ;  I  shall  go  with  a  broken  heart,  but  I  shall  bless 


SMOKE  201 

you  for  your  truthfulness.  But  if  you  really,  my 
beautiful,  radiant  queen,  love  a  man  so  petty,  so  ob- 
scure as  I,  and  are  really  ready  to  share  his  fate, — 
well,  then,  give  me  your  hand,  and  let  us  set  off  to-» 
gether  on  our  difficult  way!  Only  understand,  my 
decision  is  unchanging ;  either  all  or  nothing.  It's  un- 
reasonable .  .  .  but  I  could  not  do  otherwise — I  can- 
not, Irina !  I  love  you  too  much. — Yours,  G.  L." 

Litvinov  did  not  much  like  this  letter  himself;  it  did 
not  quite  truly  and  exactly  express  what  he  wanted 
to  say;  it  was  full  of  awkward  expressions,  high  flown 
or  bookish,  and  doubtless  it  was  not  better  than  many 
of  the  other  letters  he  had  torn  up;  but  it  was  the 
last,  the  chief  point  was  thoroughly  stated  anyway,  and 
harassed,  and  worn  out,  Litvinov  did  not  feel  capable 
of  dragging  anything  else  out  of  his  head.  Besides  he 
did  not  possess  the  faculty  of  putting  his  thought  into 
literary  form,  and  like  all  people  with  whom  it  is  not 
habitual,  he  took  great  trouble  over  the  style.  His 
first  letter  was  probably  the  best ;  it  came  warmer  from 
the  heart  However  that  might  be,  Litvinov  despatched 
his  missive  to  Irina. 

She  replied  in  a  brief  note: 

"Come  to  me  to-day,"  she  wrote  to  him:  "he  has 
gone  away  for  the  whole  day.  Your  letter  has  greatly 
disturbed  me.  I  keep  thinking,  thinking  .  .  .  and  my 
head  is  in  a  whirl.  I  am  very  wretched,  but  you  love 
me,  and  I  am  happy.  Come.  Yours,  I." 

She  was  sitting  in  her  boudoir  when  Litvinov  went 
in.  He  was  conducted  there  by  the  same  little  girl  of 
thirteen  who  on  the  previous  day  had  watched  for  him 
on  the  stairs.  On  the  table  before  Irina  was  standing 


202  SMOKE 

an  open,  semi-circular,  cardboard  box  of  lace :  she  was 
carelessly  turning  over  the  lace  with  one  hand,  in  the 
other  she  was  holding  Litvinov's  letter.  She  had  only 
just  left  off  crying;  her  eyelashes  were  wet,  and  her 
eyelids  swollen ;  on  her  cheeks  could  be  seen  the  traces 
of  undried  tears  not  wiped  away.  Litvinov  stood 
still  in  the  doorway ;  she  did  not  notice  his  entrance. 

"You  are  crying?"  he  said  wonderingly. 

She  started,  passed  her  hand  over  her  hair  and 
smiled. 

"Why  are  you  crying?"  repeated  Litvinov.  She 
pointed  in  silence  to  the  letter.  "So  you  were  .  .  . 
over  that,"  he  articulated  haltingly. 

"Come  here,  sit  down,"  she  said,  "give  me  your 
hand.  Well,  yes,  I  was  crying  .  .  .  what  are  you 
surprised  at?  Is  that  nothing?"  she  pointed  again  to 
the  letter. 

Litvinov  sat  down. 

"I  know  it's  not  easy,  Irina,  I  tell  you  so,  indeed, 
in  my  letter  .  .  .  P  understand  your  position.  But  if 
you  believe  in  the  value  of  your  love  for  me,  if  my 
words  have  convinced  you,  you  ought,  too,  to  under- 
stand what  I  feel  now  at  the  sight  of  your  tears.  I 
have  come  here,  like  a  man  on  his  trial,  and  I  await 
what  is  to  be  my  sentence?  Death  or  life?  Your 
answer  decides  everything.  Only  don't  look  at  me 
with  those  eyes.  .  .  .  They  remind  me  of  the  eyes  I 
saw  in  old  days  in  Moscow." 

Irina  flushed  at  once,  and  turned  away,  as  though 
herself  conscious  of  something  evil  in  her  gaze. 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Grigory?  For  shame!  You 
want  to  know  my  answer  ...  do  you  mean  to  say 
you  can  doubt  it  ?  You  are  troubled  by  my  tears  .  .  . 
but  you  don't  understand  them.  Your  letter,  dearest, 
has  set  me  thinking.  Here  you  write  that  my  love 


SMOKE  203 

has  replaced  everything  for  you,  that  even  your  former 
studies  can  never  now  be  put  into  practice;  but  I  ask 
myself,  can  a  man  live  for  love  alone?  Won't  it  weary 
him  at  last,  won't  he  want  an  active  career,  and  won't 
he  cast  the  blame  on  what  drew  him  away  from 
active  life?  That's  the  thought  that  dismays  me, 
that's  what  I  am  afraid  of,  and  not  what  you 
imagine." 

Litvinov  looked  intently  at  Irina,  and  Irina  intently 
looked  at  him,  as  though  each  would  penetrate  deeper 
and  further  into  the  soul  of  the  other,  deeper  and  fur- 
ther than  word  can  reach,  or  word  betray. 

"You  are  wrong  in  being  afraid  of  that,"  began 
Litvinov.  "I  must  have  expressed  myself  badly. 
Weariness  ?  Inactivity  ?  With  the  new  impetus  your 
love  will  give  me?  O  Irina,  in  your  love  there's  a 
whole  world  for  me,  and  I  can't  yet  foresee  myself 
what  may  develop  from  it." 

Irina  grew  thoughtful. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  whispered. 

"Where  ?  We  will  talk  of  that  later.  But,  of  course, 
then  .  .  .  then  you  agree  ?  you  agree,  Irina  ?" 

She  looked  at  him.    "And  you  will  be  happy?" 

"O  Irina!" 

"You  will  regret  nothing?    Never?" 

She  bent  over  the  cardboard  box,  and  again  began 
looking  over  the  lace  in  it. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  dear  one,  for  attending 
to  this  trash  at  such  a  moment.  ...  I  am  obliged  to 
go  to  a  ball  at  a  certain  lady's,  these  bits  of  finery  have 
been  sent  me,  and  I  must  choose  to-day.  Ah!  I  am 
awfully  wretched!"  she  cried  suddenly,  and  she  laid 
her  face  down  on  the  edge  of  the  box.  Tears  began 
falling  again  from  her  eyes.  .  .  .  She  turned  away; 
the  tears  might  spoil  the  lace. 


204  SMOKE 

"Irina,  you  are  crying  again,"  Litvinov  began  un- 
easily. 

"Ah,  yes,  again,"  Irina  interposed  hurriedly.  "O 
Grigory,  don't  torture  me,  don't  torture  yourself ! 
.  .  .  Let  us  be  free  people!  What  does  it  matter  if  I 
do  cry !  And  indeed  do  I  know  myself  why  my  tears 
are  flowing?  You  know,  you  have  heard  my  decision. 
you  believe  it  will  not  be  changed.  That  I  agree  to 
.  .  .  What  was  it  you  said?  ...  to  all  or  nothing 
.  .  .  what  more  would  you  have?  Let  us  be  free? 
Why  these  mutual  chains?  We  are  alone  together 
now,  you  love  me.  I  love  you ;  is  it  possible  we  have 
nothing  to  do  but  wringing  our  thoughts  out  of  each 
other?  Look  at  me,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  myself, 
I  have  never  by  one  word  hinted  that  for  me  perhaps 
it  was  not  so  easy  to  set  at  nought  my  duty  as  a  wife 
.  .  .  and,  of  course,  I  don't  deceive  myself,  I  know 
I  am  a  criminal,  and  that  he  has  a  right  to  kill  me. 
Well,  what  of  it?  Let  us  be  free,  I  say.  To-day  is 
ours- -a  life-time's  ours." 

She  got  up  from  the  arm-chair  and  looked  at  Lit- 
vinov with  her  head  thrown  back,  faintly  smiling  and 
moving  her  eyebrows,  while  with  one  arm  bare  to  the 
elbow  she  pushed  back  from  her  face  a  long  tress  on 
which  a  few  tears  glistened.  A  rich  scarf  slipped 
from  the  table  and  fell  on  the  floor  at  Irina's  feet. 
She  trampled  contemptuously  on  it.  "Or  don't  you 
like  me,  to-day  ?  Have  I  grown  ugly  since  yesterday  ? 
Tell  me,  have  you  often  seen  a  prettier  hand?  And 
this  hair?  Tell  me,  do  you  love  me?" 

She  clasped  him  in  both  arms,  held  his  head  close 
to  her  bosom,  her  comb  fell  out  with  a  ringing  sound, 
and  her  falling  hair  wrapped  him  in  a  soft  flood  of 
fragrance. 


XXIV 

LITVINOV  walked  up  and  down  his  room  in  the  hotel, 
his  head  bowed  in  thought.  He  had  now  to  pass 
from  theory  to  practice,  to  devise  ways  and  means 
for  flight,  for  moving  to  unknown  countries.  .  .  . 
But,  strange  to  say,  he  was  not  pondering  so  much 
upon  ways  and  means  as  upon  whether  actually,  be- 
yond doubt,  the  decision  had  been  reached  on  which 
he  had  so  obstinately  insisted  ?  Had  the  ultimate,  ir- 
revocable word  been  uttered?  But  Irina  to  be  sure 
had  said  to  him  at  parting,  "Act,  act,  and  when  every 
thing  is  ready,  only  let  me  know."  That  was  final! 
Away  with  all  doubts.  ...  He  must  proceed  to  action. 
And  Litvinov  proceeded — in  the  meantime — to  calcula- 
tion. Money  first  of  all.  Litvinov  had,  he  found,  in 
ready  money  one  thousand  three  hundred  and  twenty- 
eight  guldens,  in  French  money,  two  thousand  eight 
hundred  and  fifty-five  francs;  the  sum  was  trifling, 
but  it  was  enough  for  the  first  necessities,  and  then  he 
must  at  once  write  to  his  father  to  send  him  all  he 
could;  he  would  have  to  sell  the  forest  part  of  the 
land.  But  on  what  pretext?  .  .  .  Well,  a  pretext 
would  be  found.  Irina  had  spoken,  it's  true,  of  her 
bijoux,  but  that  must  not  be  taken  into  his  reckon- 
ing ;  that,  who  knows,  might  come  in  for  a  rainy  day. 
He  had  besides  a  good  Geneva  watch,  for  which  he 
might  get  .  .  .  well,  say,  four  hundred  francs.  Lit- 
vinov went  to  a  banker's,  and  with  much  circumlocu- 
tion introduced  the  question  whether  it  was  possible, 
205 


206  SMOKE 

in  case  of  need,  to  borrow  money;  but  bankers  at 
Baden  are  wary  old  foxes,  and  in  response  to  such  cir- 
cumlocutions they  promptly  assume  a  drooping  and 
blighted  air,  for  all  the  world  like  a  wild  flower  whose 
stalk  has  been  severed  by  the  scythe;  some,  indeed, 
laugh  outright  in  your  face,  as  though  appreciating 
an  innocent  joke  on  your  part.  Litvinov,  to  his  shame, 
even  tried  his  luck  at  roulette,  even,  oh  ignominy !  put 
a  thaler  on  the  number  thirty,  corresponding  with  his 
own  age.  He  did  this  with  a  view  to  augmenting  and 
rounding  off  his  capital;  and  if  he  did  not  augment  it, 
he  certainly  did  round  off  his  capital  by  losing  the  odd 
twenty-eight  guldens.  There  was  a  second  question, 
also  not  an  unimportant  one;  that  was  the  passport. 
But  for  a  woman  a  passport  is  not  quite  so  obligator)', 
and  there  are  countries  where  it  is  not  required  at  all, 
Belgium,  for  instance,  and  England ;  besides,  one  might 
even  get  some  other  passport,  not  Russian.  Litvinov 
pondered  very  seriously  on  all  this;  his  decision  was 
firm,  absolutely  unwavering,  and  yet  all  the  time 
against  his  will,  overriding  his  will,  something  not 
serious,  almost  humorous  came  in,  filtered  through  his 
musings,  as  though  the  very  enterprise  were  a  comic 
business,  and  no  one  ever  did  elope  with  any  one  in 
reality,  but  only  in  plays  and  novels,  and  perhaps 
somewhere  in  the  provinces,  in  some  of  those  remote 
districts,  where,  according  to  the  statements  of  travel- 
ers, people  are  literally  sick  continually  from  ennui. 
At  that  point  Litvinov  recalled  how  an  acquaintance 
of  his,  a  retired  cornet,  Batsov,  had  eloped  with  a 
merchant's  daughter  in  a  staging  sledge  with  bells  and 
three  horses,  having  as  a  preliminary  measure  made 
the  parents  drunk,  and  adopted  the  same  precaution 
as  well  with  the  bride,  and  how,  as  it  afterwards  turned 
out,  he  was  outwitted  and  within  an  ace  of  a  thrashing 


SMOKE  207 

into  the  bargain.  Litvinov  felt  exceedingly  irritated 
with  himself  for  such  inappropriate  reminiscences,  and 
then  with  the  recollection  of  Tatyana,  her  sudden 
departure,  all  that  grief  and  suffering  and  shame,  he 
felt  only  too  acutely  that  the  affair  he  was  arranging 
was  deadly  earnest,  and  how  right  he  had  been  when 
he  had  told  Irina%that  his  honor,  even,  left  no  other 
course  open.  .  .  .  And  again  at  the  mere  name  some- 
thing of  flame  turned  with  sweet  ache  about  his  heart 
and  died  away  again. 

The  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs  sounded  behind  him. 
.  .  .  He  moved  aside.  .  .  .  Irina  overtook  him  on 
horseback ;  beside  her  rode  the  stout  general.  She  rec- 
ognized Litvinov,  nodded  to  him,  and  lashing  her 
horse  with  a  sidestroke  of  her  whip,  she  put  him  into 
a  gallop,  and  suddenly  dashed  away  at  headlong  speed. 
Her  dark  veil  fluttered  in  the  wind.  .  .  . 

''Pas  si  vite!  Nom  de  Dieul  pas  si  vite!"  cried  the 
general,  and  he,  too,  galloped  after  her. 


XXV 

THE  next  morning  Litvinov  had  only  just  come 
home  from  seeing  the  banker,  with  whom  he  had  had 
another  conversation  on  the  playful  instability  of  our 
exchange,  and  the  best  means  of  sending  money 
abroad,  when  the  hotel  porter  handed  him  a  letter. 
He  recognized  Irina's  handwriting,  and  without  break- 
ing the  seal — a  presentiment  of  evil,  Heaven  knows 
why,  was  astir  in  him — he  went  into  his  room.  This 
was  what  he  read  (the  letter  was  in  French)  : 

"My  dear  one,  I  have  been  thinking  all  night  of  your 
plan.  ...  I  am  not  going  to  shuffle  with  you.  You 
have  been  open  with  me,  and  I  will  be  open  with  you ; 
I  cannot  run  away  with  you,  I  have  not  the  strength 
to  do  it.  I  feel  how  I  am  wronging  you,  my  second 
sin  is  greater  than  the  first,  I  despise  myself,  my 
cowardice.  I  cover  myself  with  reproaches,  but  I  can- 
not change  myself.  In  vain  I  tell  myself  that  I  have 
destroyed  your  happiness,  that  you  have  the  right  now 
to  regard  me  as  a  frivolous  flirt,  that  I  myself  drew  you 
on,  that  I  have  given  you  solemn  promises.  ...  I  am 
furl  of  horror  of  hatred  for  myself,  but  I  can't  do 
otherwise,  I  can't,  I  can't.  I  don't  want  to  justify 
myself,  I  won't  tell  you  I  was  carried  away  myself 
...  all  that's  of  no  importance ;  but  I  want  to  tell  you, 
and  to  say  it  again,  and  yet  again,  I  am  yours,  yours 
for  ever,  do  with  me  as  you  will,  when  you  will, 
free  from  all  obligation,  from  all  responsibility!  T 
am  yours.  .  .  .  But  run  away,  throw  up  everything 
208 


SMOKE  209 

...  no !  no !  no !  I  besought  you  to  save  me,  I  hoped 
to  wipe  out  everything,  to  burn  up  the  past  as  in  a  fire 
.  .  .  but  I  see  there  is  no  salvation  for  me;  I  see  the 
poison  has  gone  too  deeply  into  me ;  I  see  one  cannot 
breathe  this  atmosphere  for  years  with  impunity.  I 
have  long  hesitated  whether  to  write  you  this  letter, 
I  dread  to  think  what  decision  you  may  come  to,  I 
trust  only  to  your  love  for  me.  But  I  felt  it  would  be 
dishonest  on  my  part  to  hide  the  truth  from  you — 
especially  as  perhaps  you  have  already  begun  to  take 
the  first  steps  for  carrying  out  our  project.  Ah!  it 
was  lovely  but  impracticable.  O  my  dear  one,  think 
me  a  weak,  worthless  woman,  despise,  but  don't  aban- 
don me,  don't  abandon  your  Irina !  ...  To  leave  this 
life  I  have  not  the  courage,  but  live  it  without  you  I 
cannot  either.  We  soon  go  back  to  Petersburg,  come 
there,  live  there,  we  will  find  occupation  for  you,  your 
labors  in  the  past  shall  not  be  thrown  away,  you  shall 
find  good  use  for  them  .  .  .  only  live  near  me,  only 
love  me;  such  as  I  am,  with  all  my  weaknesses  and 
my  vices,  and  believe  me,  no  heart  will  ever  be  so  ten- 
derly devoted  to  you  as  the  heart  of  your  Irina.  Come 
soon  to.  me,  I  shall  not  have  an  instant's  peace  until  I 
see  you. — Yours,  yours,  yours,  I." 

The  blood  beat  like  a  sledge-hammer  in  Litvinov's 
head,  then  slowly  and  painfully  sank  to  his  heart,  and 
was  chill  as  a  stone  in  it.  He  read  through  Irina's 
letter,  and  just  as  on  that  day  at  Moscow  he  fell  in 
exhaustion  on  the  sofa,  and  stayed  there  motionless. 
A  dark  abyss  seemed  suddenly  to  have  opened  on  all 
sides  of  him,  and  he  stared  into  this  darkness  in  sense- 
less despair.  And  so  again,  again  deceit,  no,  worse 
than  deceit,  lying  and  baseness.  .  .  .  And  life  shat- 
tered, everything  torn  up  by  its  roots  utterly,  and  the 


210  SMOKE 

sole  thing  which  he  could  cling  to — the  last  prop  in 
fragments,  too!  "Come  after  us  to  Petersburg,"  he 
repeated  with  a  bitter  inward  laugh,  "we  will  find  you 
occupation.  .  .  .  Find  me  a  place  as  a  head  clerk,  eh? 
and  who  are  we?  Here  there's  a  hint  of  her  past. 
Here  we  have  the  secret,  hideous  something  I  know 
nothing  of,  but  which  she  has  been  trying  to  wipe 
out,  to  burn  as  in  a  fire.  Here  we  have  that  world  of 
intrigues,  of  secret  relations,  of  shameful  stories  of 
Byelskys  and  Dolskys.  .  .  .  And  what  a  future,  what 
a  lovely  part  awaiting  me !  To  live  close  to  her,  visit 
her,  share  with  her  the  morbid  melancholy  of  the  lady 
of  fashion  who  is  sick  and  weary  of  the  world,  but 
can't  live  outside  its  circle,  be  the  friend  of  the  house 
of  course,  of  his  Excellency  .  .  .  until  .  .  .  until  the 
whim  changes  and  the  plebeian  lover  loses  his  piquancy, 
and  is  replaced  by  that  fat  general  or  Mr.  Finikov — 
that's  possible  and  pleasant,  and  I  dare  say  useful. 
.  .  .  She  talks  of  a  good  use  for  my  talents?  .  .  .  but  the 
other  project's  impracticable,  impracticable.  ...  In 
Litvinov's  soul  rose,  like  sudden  gusts  of  wind  before  a 
storm,  momentary  impulses  of  fury.  .  .  .  Every  ex- 
pression in  Irina's  letter  roused  his  indignation,  her 
very  assertions  of  her  unchanging  feelings  affronted 
him.  "She  can't  let  it  go  like  that,"  he  cried  at  last,  "I 
won't  allow  her  to  play  with  my  life  so  mercilessly." 

Litvinov  jumped  up,  snatched  his  hat.  But  what 
was  he  to  do  ?  Run  to  her  ?  Answer  her  letter  ?  He 
stopped  short,  and  his  hands  fell. 

"Yes,  what  was  to  be  done?" 

Had  he  not  himself  put  this  fatal  choice  to  her?  It 
had  not  turned  out  as  he  had  wished  .  .  .  there  was 
that  risk  about  every  choice.  She  had  changed  her 
mind,  it  was  true;  she  herself  had  declared  at  first 
that  she  would  throw  up  everything  and  follow  him; 


SMOKE  211 

that  was  true,  too ;  but  she  did  not  deny  her  guilt,  she 
called  herself  a  weak  woman;  she  did  not  want  to  de- 
ceive him,  she  had  been  deceived  in  herself.  .  .  . 
What  answer  could  be  made  to  that  ?  At  any  rate  she 
was  not  hypocritical,  she  was  not  deceiving  him  .  .  . 
she  was  open,  remorselessly  open.  There  was  nothing 
forced  her  to  speak  out,  nothing  to  prevent  her  from 
soothing  him  with  promises,  putting  things  off,  and 
keeping  it  all  in  uncertainty  till  her  departure  .  .  .  till 
her  departure  with  her  husband  for  Italy?  But  she 
had  ruined  his  life,  ruined  two  lives.  .  .  .  What  of 
that? 

But  as  regards  Tatyana,  she  was  not  guilty;  the 
guilt  was  his,  his,  Litvinov's  alone,  and  he  had  no  right 
to  shake  off  the  responsibility  his  own  sin  had  laid 
with  iron  yoke  upon  him.  ...  All  this  was  so;  but 
what  was  left  him  to  do  now? 

Again  he  flung  himself  on  the  sofa  and  again  in 
gloom,  darkly,  dimly,  without  trace,  with  devouring 
swiftness,  the  minutes  raced  past.  .  .  . 

"And  why  not  obey  her?"  flashed  through  his  brain. 
"She  loves  me,  she  is  mine,  and  in  our  very  yearning 
towards  each  other,  in  this  passion,  which  after  so 
many  years  has  burst  upon  us,  and  forced  its  way 
out  with  such  violence,  is  there  not  something  inevita- 
ble, irresistible,  like  a  law  of  nature?  Live  in  Peters- 
burg .  .  .  and  shall  I  be  the  first  to  be  put  in  such 
a  position?  And  how  could  we  be  in  safety  togeth- 
er? .  .  ." 

And  he  fell  to  musing,  and  Irina's  shape,  in  the 
guise  in  which  it  was  imprinted  for  ever  in  his  late 
memories,  softly  rose  before  him.  .  .  .  But  not  for 
long.  ...  He  mastered  himself,  and  with  a  fresh  out- 
burst of  indignation  drove  away  from  him  both  those 
memories  and  that  seductive  image. 


212  SMOKE 

"You  give  me  to  drink  from  that  golden  cup,"  he 
cried,  "but  there  is  poison  in  the  draught,  and  your 
white  wings  are  besmirched  with  mire.  .  .  .  Away! 
Remain  here  with  you  after  the  way  I  ...  I  drove 
away  my  betrothed  ...  a  deed  of  infamy,  of  infa- 
my !"  He  wrung  his  hands  with  anguish,  and  another 
face  with  the  stamp  of  suffering  on  its  still  features, 
with  dumb  reproach  in  its  farewell  eyes,  rose  from 
the  depths.  .  .  . 

And  for  a  long  time  Litvinov  was  in  this  agony 
still ;  for  a  long  time,  his  tortured  thought,  like  a  man 
fever-stricken,  tossed  from  side  to  side.  ...  He  grew 
calm  at  last ;  at  last  he  came  to  a  decision.  From  the 
very  first  instant  he  had  a  presentiment  of  this  deci- 
sion; ...  it  had  appeared  to  him  at  first  like  a  dis- 
tant, hardly  perceptible  point  in  the  midst  of  the  dark- 
ness and  turmoil  of  his  inward  conflict;  then  it  had  be- 
gun to  move  nearer  and  nearer,  till  it  ended  by  cutting 
with  icy  edge  into  his  heart. 

Litvinov  once  more  dragged  his  box  out  of  the  cor- 
ner, once  more  he  packed  all  his  things,  without  haste, 
even  with  a  kind  of  stupid  carefulness,  rang  for  the 
waiter,  paid  his  bill,  and  despatched  to  Irina  a  note  in 
Russian  to  the  following  purport: 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  are  doing  me  a  greater 
wrong  now  than  then;  but  I  know  this  present  blow 
is  infinitely  heavier.  ...  It  is  the  end.  You  tell  me, 
'I  cannot' ;  and  I  repeat  to  you,  'I  cannot  .  .  .'  do 
what  you  want.  I  cannot  and  I  don't  want  to.  Don't 
answer  me.  You  are  not  capable  of  giving  me  the  only 
answer  I  would  accept.  I  am  going  away  to-morrow, 
early,  by  the  first  train.  Good-by,  may  you  be  happy ! 
We  shall  in  all  probability  not  see  each  other  again." 

Till  night-tirne  Litvinov  did  not  leave  his  room; 
God  knows  whether  he  was  expecting  anything. 


SMOKE  213 

About  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  a  lady  in  a  black 
mantle  with  a  veil  on  her  face  twice  approached  the 
steps  of  his  hotel.  Moving  a  little  aside  and  gazing 
far  away  into  the  distance,  she  suddenly  made  a  reso- 
lute gesture  with  her  hand,  and  for  the  third  time  went 
towards  the  steps.  .  .  . 

"Where  are  you  going,  Irina  Pavlovna?"  she  heard 
a  voice  utter  with  effort  behind  her. 

She  turned  with  nervous  swiftness.  .  .  .  Potugin 
ran  up  to  her. 

She  stopped  short,  thought  a  moment,  and  fairly 
flung  herself  towards  him,  took  his  arm,  and  drew  him 
away. 

'Take  me  away,  take  me  away,"  she  repeated  breath- 
lessly. 

"What  is  it,  Irina  Pavlovna?"  he  muttered  in  be- 
wilderment. 

"Take  me  away,"  she  reiterated  with  redoubled 
force,  "if  you  don't  want  me  to  remain  for  ever  .  .  . 
there." 

Potugin  bent  his  head  submissively,  and  hurriedly 
they  went  away  together. 

The  following  morning  early  Litvinov  was  per- 
fectly ready  for  his  journey — into  his  room  walked 
.  .  .  Potugin. 

He  went  up  to  him  in  silence,  and  in  silence  shook 
his  hand.  Litvinov,  too,  said  nothing.  Both  of  them 
wore  long  faces,  and  both  vainly  tried  to  smile. 

"I  came  to  wish  you  a  good  journey,"  Potugin 
brought  out  at  last. 

"And  how  did  you  know  I  was  going  to-day?"  asked 
Litvinov. 

Potugin  looked  on  the  floor  around  him  ...  "I  be- 
came aware  of  it  ...  as  you  see.  Our  last  conver- 
sation took  in  the  end  such  a  strange  turn.  ...  I  did 


^14  SMOKE 

not  want  to  part  from  you  without  expressing  my  sin- 
cere good  feeling  for  you." 

"You  have  good  feeling  for  me  now  .  .  .  when  I 
am  going  away?" 

Potugin  looked  mournfully  at  Litvinov.  "Ah, 
Grigory  Mihalitch,  Grigory  Mihalitch,"  he  began  with 
a  short  sigh,  "it's  no  time  for  that  with  us  now,  no 
time  for  delicacy  or  fencing.  You  don't,  so  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  perceive,  take  much  interest  in  our 
national  literature,  and  so,  perhaps,  you  have  no  clear 
conception  of  Vaska  Buslaev?" 

"Of  whom?" 

"Of  Vaska  Buslaev,  the  hero  of  Novgorod  ...  in 
Kirsch-Danilov's  collection." 

"What  Buslaev?"  said  Litvinov,  somewhat  puzzled 
t>y  the  unexpected  turn  of  the  conversation.  "I  don't 
Tcnow." 

"Well,  never  mind.  I  only  wanted  to  draw  your 
attention  to  something.  Vaska  Buslaev,  after  he  had 
taken  away  his  Novgorodians  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Jeru- 
salem, and  there,  to  their  horror,  bathed  all  naked  in 
the  holy  river  Jordan,  for  he  believed  not  'in  omen 
nor  in  dream,  nor  in  the  flight  of  birds,'  this  logical 
Vaska  Buslaev  climbed  up  Mount  Tabor,  and  on  the 
top  of  this  mountain  there  lies  a  great  stone,  over 
which  men  of  every  kind  have  tried  in  vain  to  jump. 
-  .  .  Vaska  too  ventured  to  try  his  luck.  And  he 
•chanced  upon  a  dead  head,  a  human  skull  in  his  road ; 
lie  kicked  it  away  with  his  foot.  So  the  skull  said  to 
him ;  "Why  do  you  kick  me  ?  I  knew  how  to  live,  and 
I  know  how  to  roll  in  the  dust — and  it  will  be  the  same 
with  you."  And  in  fact,  Vaska  jumps  over  the  stone, 
and  he  did  quite  clear  it,  but  he  caught  his  heel  and 
broke  his  skull.  And  in  this  place,  I  must  by  the  way 
observe  that  it  wouldn't  be  amiss  for  our  friends,  the 


SMOKE  t     215 

Slavophils,  who  are  so  fond  of  kicking  dead  heads 
and  decaying  nationalities  underfoot  to  ponder  over 
that  legend." 

"But  what  does  all  that  mean?"  Litvinov  interposed 
impatiently  at  last.  "Excuse  me,  it's  time  for  me  .  .  ." 

"Why,  this,"  answered  Potugin,  and  his  eyes 
beamed  with  such  affectionate  warmth  as  Litvinov  had 
not  even  expected  of  him,  "this,  that  you  do  not  spurn 
a  dead  human  head,  and  for  your  goodness,  perhaps 
you  may  succeed  in  leaping  over  the  fatal  stone.  I 
won't  keep  you  any  longer,  only  let  me  embrace  you  at 
parting." 

"I'm  not  going  to  try  to  leap  over  it,  even,"  Litvinov 
declared,  kissing  Potugin  three  times,  and  the  bitter 
sensations  filling  his  soul  were  replaced  for  an  instant 
by  pity  for  the  poor,  lonely  creature. 

"But  I  must  go,  I  must  go.  .  .  ."  he  moved  about 
the  room. 

"Can  I  carry  anything  for  you?"  Potugin  prof- 
fered his  services. 

"No,  thank  you,  don't  trouble,  I  can  manage.  .  .  .* 

He  put  on  his  cap,  took  up  his  bag.  "So  you  say," 
he  queried,  stopping  in  the  doorway,  "you  have  seen 
her?" 

"Yes,  I've  seen  her." 

"Well  .  .  .  tell  me  about  her." 

Potugin  was  silent  a  moment.  "She  expected  you 
yesterday  .  .  .  and  to-day  she  will  expect  you." 

"Ah !  Well,  tell  her.  .  .  .  No,  there's  no  need,  no 
need  of  anything.  Good-by  .  .  .  Good-by!" 

"Good-by,  Grigory  Mihalitch.  ...  Let  me  say  one 
word  more  to  you.  You  still  have  time  to  listen  to  me ; 
there's  more  than  half  an  hour  before  the  train  starts. 
You  are  returning  to  Russia.  .  .  .  There  you  will 
...  in  time  ...  get  to  work.  .  .  .  Allow  an  old 


216  SMOKE 

chatterbox — for,  alas,  I  am  a  chatterbox,  and  nothing 
more — to  give  you  advice  for  your  journey.  Every 
time  it  is  your  lot  to  undertake  any  piece  of  work,  ask 
yourself :  Are  you  serving  the  cause  of  civilization,  in 
the  true  and  strict  sense  of  the  word:  are  you  pro- 
moting one  of  the  ideals  of  civilization ;  have  your 
labors  that  educating,  Europeanizing  character  which 
alone  is  beneficial  and  profitable  in  our  day  among  us? 
If  it  is  so,  go  boldly  forward,  you  are  on  the  right 
path,  and  your  work  is  a  blessing !  Thank  God  for  it ! 
You  are  not  alone  now.  You  will  not  be  a  'sower  in 
the  desert' ;  there  are  plenty  of  workers  .  .  .  pioneers 
.  .  .  even  among  us  now.  .  .  .  But  you  have  no  ears 
for  this  now.  Good-by,  don't  forget  me !" 

Litvinov  descended  the  staircase  at  a  run,  flung  him- 
self into  a  carriage,  and  drove  to  the  station,  not  once 
looking  round  at  the  town  where  so  much  of  his  per- 
sonal life  was  left  behind.  He  abandoned  himself,  as 
it  were,  to  the  tide ;  it  snatched  him  up  and  bore  him 
along,  and  he  firmly  resolved  not  to  struggle  against 
it  ...  all  other  exercise  of  independent  will  he  re- 
nounced. 

He  was  just  taking  his  seat  in  the  railway  carriage. 

"Grigory  Mihalitch  .  .  .  Grigory  .  .  ."  he  heard  a 
supplicating  whisper  behind  him. 

He  started  .  .  .  Could  it  be  Irina  ?  Yes ;  it  was  she. 
Wrapped  in  her  maid's  shawl,  a  traveling  hat  on  her 
disheveled  hair,  she  was  standing  on  the  platform,  and 
gazing  at  him  with  worn  and  weary  eyes. 

"Come  back,  come  back,  I  have  come  for  you,"  those 
eyes  were  saying.  And  what,  what  were  they  not 
promising?  She  did  not  move,  she  had  not  power  to 
add  a  word;  everything  about  her,  even  the  disorder 
of  her  dress,  everything  seemed  entreating  forgive- 
ness . 


SMOKE  217 

Litvinov  was  almost  beaten,  scarcely  could  he  keep 
from  rushing  to  her.  .  .  .  But  the  tide  to  which  he 
had  surrendered  himself  reasserted  itself.  .  .  .  He 
jumped  into  the  carriage,  and  turning  round,  he  mo- 
tioned Irina  to  a  place  beside  him.  She  understood 
him.  There  was  still  time.  One  step,  one  movement, 
and  two  lives  made  one  for  ever  would  have  been  hur- 
ried away  into  the  uncertain  distance.  .  .  .  While  she 
wavered,  a  loud  whistle  sounded  and  the  train  moved 
off. 

Litvinov  sank  back,  while  Irina  moved  staggering  to 
a  seat,  and  fell  on  it,  to  the  immense  astonishment  of 
a  supernumerary  diplomatic  official  who  chanced  to  be 
lounging  about  the  railway  station.  He  was  slightly 
acquainted  with  Irina,  and  greatly  admired  her,  and 
seeing  that  she  lay  as  though  overcome  by  faintness. 
he  imagined  that  she  had  "une  attaque  de  nerfs,"  and 
therefore  deemed  it  his  duty,  the  duty  d'un  galant  che- 
valier, to  go  to  her  assistance.  But  his  astonishment 
assumed  far  greater  proportions  when,  at  the  first  word 
addressed  to  her,  she  suddenly  got  up,  repulsed  his 
proffered  arm,  and  hurrying  out  into  the  street,  had  in 
a  few  instants  vanished  in  the  milky  vapor  of  fog,  so 
characteristic  of  the  climate  of  the  Black  Forest  in  the 
early  days  of  autumn. 


XXVI 

WE  happened  once  to  go  into  the  hut  of  a  peasant- 
woman  who  had  just  lost  her  only,  passionately  loved 
son,  and  to  our  considerable  astonishment  we  found 
•her  perfectly  calm,  almost  cheerful.  "Let  her  be,"  said 
her  husband,  to  whom  probably  our  astonishment  was 
apparent,  "she  is  gone  numb  now."  And  Litvinov 
had  in  the  same  way  "gone  numb."  The  same  sort  of 
calm  came  over  him  during  the  first  few  hours  of  the 
journey.  Utterly  crushed,  hopelessly  wretched  as  he 
was,  still  he  was  at  rest,  at  rest  after  the  agonies  and 
sufferings  of  the  last  few  weeks,  after  all  the  blows 
which  had  fallen  one  after  another  upon  his  head. 
They  had  been  the  more  shattering  for  him  that  he  was 
little  fitted  by  nature  for  such  tempests.  Now  he 
really  hoped  for  nothing,  and  tried  not  to  remember, 
above  all  not  to  remember.  He  was  going  to  Russia 
...  he  had  to  go  somewhere ;  but  he  was  making  no 
kind  of  plans  regarding  his  own  personality.  He  did 
not  recognize  himself,  he  did  not  comprehend  his  own 
actions,  he  had  positively  lost  his  real  identity,  and, 
in  fact,  he  took  very  little  interest  in  his  own  identity. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  taking  his  own 
corpse  home,  and  only  the  bitter  spasms  of  irremedia- 
ble spiritual  pain  passing  over  him  from  time  to  time 
brought  him  back  to  a  sense  of  still  being  alive.  At 
times  it  struck  him  as  incomprehensible  that  a  man — a 
man ! — could  let  a  woman,  let  love,  have  such  power 
over  him  .  .  .  "Ignominious  weakness !"  he  muttered, 
218 


SMOKE  219 

and  shook  back  his  cloak,  and  sat  up  more  squarely; 
as  though  to  say,  the  past  is  over,  let's  begin  fresh 
...  a  moment,  and  he  could  only  smile  bitterly  and 
wonder  at  himself.  He  fell  to  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. It  was  gray  and  damp;  there  was  no  rain,  but 
the  fog  still  hung  about ;  and  low  clouds  trailed  across 
the  sky.  The  wind  blew  facing  the  train;  whitish 
clouds  of  steam,  some  singly,  others  mingled  with 
other  darker  clouds  of  smoke,  whirled  in  endless  file 
past  the  window  at  which  Litvinov  was  sitting.  He 
began  to  watch  this  steam,  this  smoke.  Incessantly 
mounting,  rising  and  falling,  twisting  and  hooking 
on  to  the  grass,  to  the  bushes  as  though  in  sportive 
antics,  lengthening  out,  and  hiding  away,  clouds  upon 
clouds  flew  by  ...  they  were  for  ever  changing  and 
stayed  still  the  same  in  their  monotonous,  hurrying, 
wearisome  sport!  Sometimes  the  wind  changed,  the 
line  bent  to  right  or  left,  and  suddenly  the  whole  mass 
vanished,  and  at  once  reappeared  at  the  opposite  win- 
dow ;  then  again  the  huge  tail  was  flung  out,  and  again 
it  veiled  Litvinov's  view  of  the  vast  plain  of  the  Rhine. 
He  gazed  and  gazed,  and  a  strange  reverie  came  over 
him.  ...  He  was  alone  in  the  compartment;  there 
was  no  one  to  disturb  him.  "Smoke,  smoke,"  he  re- 
peated several  times;  and  suddenly  it  all  seemed  as 
smoke  to  him,  everything,  his  own  life,  Russian  life — 
everything  human,  especially  everything  Russian.  All 
smoke  and  steam,  he  thought ;  all  seems  for  ever  chang- 
ing, on  all  sides  new  forms,  phantoms  flying  after 
phantoms,  while  in  reality  it  is  all  the  same  and  the 
same  again ;  everything  hurrying,  flying  towards  some- 
thing, and  everything  vanishing  without  a  trace,  at- 
taining to  nothing;  another  wind  blows,  and  all  is 
dashing  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  there  again  the 
same  untiring,  restless — and  useless  gambols !  He  re- 


220  SMOKE 

remembered  much  that  had  taken  place  with  clamor 
and  flourish  before  his  eyes  in  the  last  few  years.  .  .  . 
"Smoke,"  he  whispered,  "smoke" ;  he  remembered  the 
hot  disputes,  the  wrangling,  the  clamor  at  Gubaryov's, 
and  in  other  sets  of  men,  of  high  and  low  degree,  ad- 
vanced and  reactionist,  old  and  young.  .  .  .  "Smoke." 
he  repeated,  "smoke  and  steam" ;  he  remembered,  too, 
the  fashionable  picnic,  and  he  remembered  various 
opinions  and  speeches  of  other  political  personages — 
even  all  Potugin's  sermonizing.  .  .  .  "Smoke,  smoke, 
nothing  but  smoke."  And  what  of  his  own  struggles 
and  passions  and  agonies  and  dreams?  He  could 
only  reply  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

And  meanwhile  the  train  dashed  on  and  on ;  by  now 
Rastadt,  Carlsruhe,  and  Bruchsal  had  long  been  left 
far  behind ;  the  mountains  on  the  right  side  of  the  line 
swerved  aside,  retreated  into  the  distance,  then  moved 
up  again,  but  not  so  high,  and  more  thinly  covered  with 
trees.  .  .  .  The  train  made  a  sharp  turn  .  .  .  and 
there  was  Heidelberg.  The  carriage  rolled  in  under 
the  cover  of  the  station ;  there  was  the  shouting  of 
newspaper-boys,  selling  papers  of  all  sorts,  even  Rus- 
sian; passengers  began  bustling  in  their  seats,  getting 
out  on  to  the  platform,  but  Litvinov  did  not  leave  his 
corner,  and  still  sat  on  with  downcast  head.  Suddenly 
some  one  called  him  by  name ;  he  raised  his  eyes ;  Bin- 
dasov's  ugly  phiz  was  thrust  in  at  the  window;  and 
behind  him — or  was  he  dreaming,  no,  it  was  really  so 
— all  the  familiar  Baden  faces;  there  was  Madame 
Suhantchikov,  there  was  Voroshilov,  and  Bambaev, 
too;  they  all  rushed  up  to  him,  while  Bindasov  bel- 
lowed : 

"But  where's  Pishtchalkin  ?  We  were  expecting 
him ;  but  it's  all  the  same,  hop  out,  and  we'll  be  off  to 
Gubaryov's." 


SMOKE  221 

"Yes,  my  boy,  yes,  Gubaryov's  expecting  us,"  Bam- 
baev  confirmed,  making  way  for  him,  "hop  out." 

Litvinov  would  have  flown  into  a  rage,  but  for  a 
dead  load  lying  on  his  heart.  He  glanced  at  Bindasov 
and  turned  away  without  speaking. 

"I  tell  you  Gubaryov's  here,"  shrieked  Madame  Su- 
hantchikov,  her  eyes  fairly  starting  out  of  her  head. 

Litvinov  did  not  stir  a  muscle. 

"Come,  do  listen,  Litvinov,"  Bambaev  began  at  last, 
"there's  not  only  Gubaryov  here,  there's  a  whole  pha- 
lanx here  of  the  most  splendid,  most  intellectual  young 
fellows,  Russians — and  all  studying  the  natural  sci- 
ences, all  of  the  noblest  convictions!  Really  you  must 
stop  here,  if  it's  only  for  them.  Here,  for  instance, 
there's  a  certain  .  .  .  there,  I've  forgotten  his  sur- 
name, but  he's  a  genius !  simply !" 

"Oh,  let  him  be,  let  him  be,  Rostislav  Ardaliono- 
vitch,"  interposed  Madame  Suhantchikov,  "let  him  be! 
You  see  what  sort  of  a  fellow  he  is ;  and  all  his  family 
are  the  same.  He  has  an  aunt ;  at  first  she  struck  me  as 
a  sensible  woman,  but  the  day  before  yesterday  I  went 
to  see  her  here — she  had  only  just  before  gone  to  Ba- 
den and  was  back  here  again  before  you  could  look 
round — well,  I  went  to  see  her;  began  questioning  her. 
.  .  .  Would  you  believe  me,  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out 
of  the  stuck-up  thing.  Horrid  aristocrat !" 

Poor  Kapitolina  Markovna  an  aristocrat!  Could 
she  ever  have  anticipated  such  a  humiliation  ? 

But  Litvinov  still  held  his  peace,  turned  away,  and 
pulled  his  cap  over  his  eyes.  The  train  started  at  last. 

"Well,  say  something  at  parting  at  least,  you  stony- 
hearted man!"  shouted  Bambaev,  "this  is  really  too 
much !" 

"Rotten  milksop!"  yelled  Bindasov.  The  carriages 
were  moving  more  and  more  rapidly,  and  he  could  vent 


•222  SMOKE 

his  abuse  with  impunity.  "Niggardly  stick-in-the-mud." 

Whether  Bindasov  invented  this  last  appellation  on 
the  spot,  or  whether  it  had  come  to  him  second-hand, 
it  apparently  gave  great  satisfaction  to  two  of  the 
noble  young  fellows  studying  natural  science,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  standing  by,  for  only  a  few  days  later  it 
appeared  in  the  Russian  periodical  sheet,  published  at 
that  time  at  Heidelberg  under  the  title :  A  tout  venant 
je  crochet  or,  "We  don't  care  a  hang  for  anybody !" 

But  Litvinov  repeated  again,  "Smoke,  smoke, 
smoke!  Here,"  he  thought,  "in  Heidelberg  now  are 
over  a  hundred  Russian  students ;  they're  all  studying 
chemistry,  physics,  physiology — they  won't  even  hear 
of  anything  else  .  .  .  but  in  five  or  six  years'  time 
there  won't  be  fifteen  at  the  lectures  by  the  same  cele- 
brated professors;  the  wind  will  change,  the  smoke 
will  be  blowing  ...  in  another  quarter  .  .  .  smoke 
.  .  .  smoke!2 

Towards  nightfall  he  passed  by  Cassel.  With  the 
darkness  intolerable  anguish  pounced  like  a  hawk  upon 
him,  and  he  wept,  burying  himself  in  the  corner  of  the 
carriage.  For  a  long  time  his  tears  flowed,  not  easing 
his  heart,  but  torturing  him  with  a  sort  of  gnawing  bit- 
terness ;  while  at  the  same  time,  in  one  of  the  hotels  of 
Cassel,  Tatyana  was  lying  in  bed  feverishly  ill. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  was  sitting  beside  her.  "Tan- 
ya," she  was  saying,  "for  God's  sake,  let  me  send  a 
telegram  to  Grigory  Mihalitch,  do  let  me,  Tanya!" 

"No,  aunt,"  she  answered;  "you  mustn't;  don't  be 
frightened,  give  me  some  water;  it  will  soon  pass." 

And  a  week  later  she  did,  in  fact,  recover,  and  the 
two  friends  continued  their  journey. 
1  A  historical  fact. 

1  Litvinov's  presentiments  came  true.  In  1866  there  were  in 
Heidelberg  thirteen  Russian  students  entered  for  the  summer, 
and  twelve  for  the  winter  session. 


XXVII 

STOPPING  neither  at  Petersburg  nor  at  Moscow,  Lit- 
vinov  went  back  to  his  estate.  He  was  dismayed  when 
he  saw  his  father ;  the  latter  was  so  weak  and  failing. 
The  old  man  rejoiced  to  have  his  son,  as  far  as  a  man 
can  rejoice  who  is  just  at  the  close  of  life;  he  at  once 
gave  over  to  him  the  management  of  everything,  which 
was  in  great  disorder,  and  lingering  on  a  few  weeks 
longer,  he  departed  from  this  earthly  sphere.  Litvinov 
was  left  alone  in  his  ancient  little  manor-house,  and 
with  a  heavy  heart,  without  hope,  without  zeal,  and 
without  money,  he  began  to  work  the  land.  Working 
the  land  is  a  cheerless  business,  as  many  know  too 
well;  we  will  not  enlarge  on  how  distasteful  it  seemed 
to  Litvinov.  As  for  reforms  and  innovations,  there 
was,  of  course,  no  question  even  of  them ;  the  practical 
application  of  the  information  he  had  gathered  abroad 
was  put  off  for  an  indefinite  period ;  poverty  forced  him 
to  make  shift  from  day  to  day,  to  consent  to  all  sorts 
of  compromises — both  material  and  moral.  The  new 
had  "begun  ill,"  the  old  had  lost  all  power;  ignorance 
jostled  up  against  dishonesty;  the  whole  agrarian  or- 
ganization was  shaken  and  unstable  as  quagmire  bog, 
and  only  one  great  word,  "freedom,"  was  wafted  like 
the  breath  of  God  over  the  waters.  Patience  was  need- 
ed before  all  things,  and  a  patience  not  passive,  but 
active,  persistent,  not  without  tact  and  cunning  at 
times.  .  .  .  For  Litvinov,  in  his  frame  of  mind,  it  was 
doubly  hard.  He  had  but  little  will  to  live  left  in  him. 
223 


224  SMOKE 

.  .  .  Where  was  he  to  get  the  will  to  labor  and  take 
trouble  ? 

But  a  year  passed,  after  it  another  passed,  the  third 
was  beginning.  The  mighty  idea  was  being  realized  by 
degrees,  was  passing  into  flesh  and  blood,  the  young 
shoot  had  sprung  up  from  the  scattered  seed,  and  its 
foes,  both  open  and  secret,  could  not  stamp  it  out  now. 
Litvinov  himself,  though  he  had  ended  by  giving  up 
the  greater  part  of  his  land  to  the  peasants  on  the  half- 
profit  system,  that's  to  say,  by  returning  to  the 
wretched  primitive  methods,  had  yet  succeeded  in  do- 
ing something;  he  had  restored  the  factory,  set  up  a 
tiny  farm  with  five  free  hired  laborers — he  had  had  at 
different  times  fully  forty — and  had  paid  his  principal 
private  debts.  .  .  .  And  his  spirit  had  gained  strength ; 
he  had  begun  to  be  like  the  old  Litvinov  again.  It's 
true,  a  deeply  buried  melancholy  never  left  him,  and 
he  was  too  quiet  for  his  years;  he  shut  himself  up  in  a 
narrow  circle  and  broke  off  all  his  old  connections  .  .  . 
but  the  deadly  indifference  had  passed,  and  among  the 
living  he  moved  and  acted  as  a  living  man  again.  The 
last  traces,  too,  had  vanished  of  the  enchantment  in 
which  he  had  been  held ;  all  that  had  passed  at  Baden 
appeared  to  him  dimly  as  in  a  dream.  .  .  .  And  Irina? 
even  she  had  paled  and  vanished,  too,  and  Litvinov 
only  had  a  faint  sense  of  something  dangerous  behind 
the  mist  that  gradually  enfolded  her  image.  Of  Tat- 
yana  news  reached  him  from  time  to  time;  he  knew 
that  she  was  living  with  her  aunt  on  her  estate,  a  hun- 
dred and  sixty  miles  from  him,  leading  a  quiet  life,  go- 
ing out  little,  and  scarcely  receiving  any  guests — 
cheerful  and  well,  however.  It  happened  on  one  fine 
May  day,  that  he  was  sitting  in  his  study,  listlessly 
turning  over  the  last  number  of  a  Petersburg  paper; 
a  servant  came  to  announce  the  arrival  of  an  old  uncle. 


SMOKE  225 

This  uncle  happened  to  be  a  cousin  of  Kapitolina  Mar  • 
kovna  and  had  been  recently  staying  with  her.  He  had 
bought  an  estate  in  Litvinov's  vicinity  and  was  on  his 
way  thither.  He  stayed  twenty-four  hours  with  his 
nephew  and  told  him  a  great  deal  about  Tatyana's 
manner  of  life.  The  next  day  after  his  departure  Lit- 
vinov  sent  her  a  letter,  the  first  since  their  separation. 
He  begged  for  permission  to  renew  her  acquaintance, 
at  least  by  correspondence,  and  also  desired  to  learn 
whether  he  must  for  ever  give  up  all  idea  of  some  day 
seeing  her  again  ?  Not  without  emotion  he  awaited  the 
answer  ...  the  answer  came  at  last.  Tatyana  re- 
sponded cordially  to  his  overture.  "If  you  are  dis- 
posed to  pay  us  a  visit,"  she  finished  up,  "we  hope  you 
will  come;  you  know  the  saying,  'even  the  sick  are 
easier  together  than  apart.'  "  Kapitolina  Markovna 
joined  in  sending  her  regards.  Litvinov  was  as  happy 
as  a  child ;  it  was  long  since  his  heart  had  beaten  with 
such  delight  over  anything.  He  felt  suddenly  light 
and  bright.  .  .  .  Just  as  when  the  sun  rises  and  drives 
away  the  darkness  of  night,  a  light  breeze  flutters  with 
the  sun's  rays  over  the  face  of  the  reviving  earth.  All 
that  day  Litvinov  kept  smiling,  even  while  he  went 
about  his  farm  and  gave  his  orders.  He  at  once  be- 
gan making  arrangements  for  the  journey,  and  a  fort- 
night later  he  was  on  his  way  to  Tatyana. 


XXVIII 

HE  drove  rather  slowly  by  cross  tracks,  without  any 
special  adventures ;  only  once  the  tire  of  a  hind  wheel 
broke;  a  blacksmith  hammered  and  welded  it,  swear- 
ing both  at  the  tire  and  at  himself,  and  positively  flung 
up  the  job ;  luckily  it  turned  out  that  among  us  one  can 
travel  capitally  even  with  a  tire  broken,  especially  on 
the  "soft,"  that's  to  say  on  the  mud.  On  the  other 
hand,  Litvinov  did  come  upon  some  rather  curious 
chance-meetings.  At  one  place  he  found  a  Board  of 
Mediators  sitting,  and  at  the  head  of  it  Pishtchalkin, 
who  made  on  him  the  impression  of  a  Solon  or  a  Solo- 
mon, such  lofty  wisdom  characterized  his  remarks, 
and  such  boundless  respect  was  shown  him  both  by 
landowners  and  peasants.  ...  In  exterior,  too,  he  had 
begun  to  resemble  a  sage  of  antiquity;  his  hair  had 
fallen  off  the  crown  of  his  head,  and  his  full  face  had 
completely  set  in  a  sort  of  solemn  jelly  of  positively 
blatant  virtue.  He  expressed  his  pleasure  at  Litvinov's 
arrival  in — "if  I  may  make  bold  to  use  so  ambitious 
an  expression,  my  own  district,"  and  altogether  seemed 
fairly  overcome  by  an  excess  of  excellent  intentions. 
One  piece  of  news  he  did,  however,  succeed  in  com- 
municating, and  that  was  about  Voroshilov;  the  hero 
of  the  Golden  Board  had  reentered  military  service, 
and  had  already  had  time  to  deliver  a  lecture  to  the 
officers  of  the  regiment  on  Buddhism  or  Dynamism,  or 
something  of  the  sort — Pishtchalkin  could  not  quite 
remember.  At  the  next  station  it  was  a  long  while  be- 
fore the  horses  were  in  readiness  for  Litvinov ;  it  was 
226 


SMOKE  227 

early  dawn,  and  he  was  dozing  as  he  sat  in  his  coach. 
A  voice,  that  struck  him  as  familiar,  waked  him  up ;  he 
opened  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Heavens!  wasn't  it  Gubaryov 
in  a  gray  pea-jacket  and  full  flapping  pajamas  stand- 
ing on  the  steps  of  the  posting  hut,  swearing?  .  .  . 
No,  it  wasn't  Mr.  Gubaryov.  .  .  .  But  what  a  striking 
resemblance !  .  .  .  Only  this  worthy  had  a  mouth  even 
wider,  teeth  even  bigger,  the  expression  of  his  dull  eyes 
was  more  savage  and  his  nose  coarser,  and  his  beard 
thicker,  and  the  whole  countenance  heavier  and  more 
repulsive. 

"Scou-oundrels,  scou-oundrels !"  he  vociferated 
slowly  and  viciously,  his  wolfish  mouth  gaping  wide. 
"Filthy  louts.  .  .  .  Here  you  have  .  .  .  vaunted  free- 
dom indeed  .  .  .  and  can't  get  horses  .  .  .  scou- 
oundrels  !" 

"Scou-oundrels,  scou-oundrels !"  thereupon  came  the 
sound  of  another  voice  from  within,  and  at  the  same 
moment  there  appeared  on  the  steps — also  in  a  gray 
smoking  pea-jacket  and  pajamas — actually,  unmistaka- 
bly, the  real  Gubaryov  himself,  Stepan  Nikolaevitch 
Gubaryov.  "Filthy  louts !"  he  went  on  in  imitation  of 
his  brother  (it  turned  out  that  the  first  gentleman  was 
his  elder  brother,  the  man  of  the  old  school,  famous 
for  his  fists,  who  had  managed  his  estate).  "Flog- 
ging's what  they  want,  that's  it;  a  tap  or  two  on  the 
snout,  that's  the  sort  of  freedom  for  them.  .  .  .  Self- 
government  indeed.  ...  I'd  let  them  know  it.  ... 
But  where  is  that  M'sieu  Roston?  .  .  .  What  is  he 
thinking  about?  .  .  .  It's  his  business,  tRe  lazy  scamp 
...  to  see  we're  not  put  to  inconvenience." 

"Well,  I  told  you,  brother,"  began  the  elder  Gubar- 
yov, "that  he  was  a  lazy  scamp,  no  good  in  fact !  But 
there,  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  you  .  .  .  M'sieu  Ros- 
ton, M'sieu  Roston!  .  .  .  Where  have  you  got  to?" 


228  SMOKE 

"Roston !  Roston !"  bawled  the  younger,  the  great 
Gubaryov.  "Give  a  good  call  for  him,  do  brother  Do- 
rimedont  Nikolaitch !" 

"Well,  I  am  shouting  for  him,  Stepan  Nikolaitch ! 
M'sieu  Roston!" 

"Here  I  am,  here  I  am,  here  I  am !"  was  heard  a 
hurried  voice,  and  round  the  corner  of  the  hut  skipped 
Bambaev. 

Litvinov  fairly  gasped.  On  the  unlucky  enthusiast 
a  shabby  braided  coat,  with  holes  in  the  elbows,  dan- 
gled ruefully;  his  features  had  not  exactly  changed, 
but  they  looked  pinched  and  drawn  together ;  his  over- 
anxious little  eyes  expressed  a  cringing  timorousness 
and  hungry  servility ;  but  his  dyed  whiskers  stood  out 
as  of  old  above  his  swollen  lips.  The  Gubaryov  broth- 
ers with  one  accord  promptly  set  to  scolding  him  from 
the  top  of  the  steps ;  he  stopped,  facing  them  below,  in 
the  mud,  and  with  his  spine  curved  deprecatingly,  he 
tried  to  propitiate  them  with  a  little  nervous  smile, 
kneading  his  cap  in  his  red  fingers,  shifting  from  one 
foot  to  the  other,  and  muttering  that  the  horses  would 
be  here  directly.  .  .  .  But  the  brothers  did  not  cease, 
till  the  younger  at  last  cast  his  eyes  upon  Litvinov. 
Whether  he  recognized  Litvinov,  or  whether  he  felt 
ashamed  before  a  stranger,  anyway  he  turned  abruptly 
on  his  heels  like  a  bear,  and  gnawing  his  beard,  went 
into  the  station  hut ;  his  brother  held  his  tongue  at  once, 
and  he,  too,  turning  like  a  bear,  followed  him  in.  The 
great  Gubaryov,  evidently,  had  not  lost  his  influence, 
even  in  his  own  country. 

Bambaev  was  slowly  moving  after  the  brothers. 
.  .  .  Litvinov  called  him  by  his  name.  He  looked 
round,  lifted  up  his  head,  and  recognizing  Litvinov, 
positively  flew  at  him  with  outstretched  arms ;  but 
when  he  had  run  up  to  the  carriage,  he  clutched  at  the 


SMOKE  229 

carriage  door,  leaned  over  it,  and  began  sobbing  vio- 
lently. 

"There,  there,  Bambaev,"  protested  Litvinov,  bend- 
ing over  him  and  patting  him  on  the  shoulder. 

But  he  went  on  sobbing.  "You  see  .  .  .  you  see 
...  to  what  .  .  ."  he  muttered  brokenly. 

"Bambaev !"  thundered  the  brothers  from  the  hut. 
Bambaev   raised   his   head   and   hurriedly   wiped   his 
tears. 

"Welcome,  dear  heart,"  he  whispered,  "welcome  and 
farewell !  .  .  .  You  hear,  they  are  calling  me." 

"But  what  chance  brought  you  here?"  inquired  Lit- 
vinov, "and  what  does  it  all  mean?  I  thought  they 
were  calling  a  Frenchman.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  their  .  .  .  house-steward,  butler,"  answered 
Bambaev,  and  he  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the  hut. 
"And  I'm  turned  Frenchman  for  a  joke.  What  could 
I  do,  brother?  You  see,  I'd  nothing  to  eat,  I'd  lost  my 
last  farthing,  and  so  one's  forced  to  put  one's  head 
under  the  yoke.  One  can't  afford  to  be  proud." 

"But  has  he  been  long  in  Russia?  and  how  did  he 
part  from  his  comrades?" 

"Ah,  my  boy,  that's  all  on  the  shelf  now.  .  .  .  The 
wind's  changed,  you  see.  .  .  .  Madame  Suhantchikov, 
Matrona  Semyonovna,  he  simply,  kicked  out.  She 
went  to  Portugal  in  her  grief." 

"To  Portugal?    How  absurd!" 

"Yes,  brother,  to  Portugal,  with  two  Matronovtsys." 

"With  whom?" 

"The  Matronovtsys;  that's  what  the  members  of 
her  party  are  called." 

"Matrona  Semyonovna  has  a  party  of  her  own? 
And  is  it  a  numerous  one?" 

"Well,  it  consists  of  precisely  those  two.  And  he 
will  soon  have  been  back  here  six  months.  Others 


230  SMOKE 

have  got  into  difficulties,  but  he  was  all  right.  He 
lives  in  the  country  with  his  brother,  and  you  should 
just  hear  him  now.  .  .  ." 

"Bambaev !" 

"Coming,  Stepan  Nikolaitch,  coming.  And  you, 
dear  old  chap,  are  flourishing,  enjoying  yourself! 
Well,  thank  God  for  that !  Where  are  you  off  to  now  ? 
.  .  .  There,  I  never  thought,  I  never  guessed.  .  .  . 
You  remember  Baden?  Ah,  that  was  a  place  to  live 
in!  By  the  way,  you  remember  Bindasov  too?  Only 
fancy,  he's  dead.  He  turned  exciseman,  and  was  in  a 
row  in  a  public-house;  he  got  his  head  broken  with  a 
billiard-cue.  Yes,  yes,  hard  times  have  come  now! 
But  still  I  say,  Russia  ...  ah,  our  Russia!  Only 
look  at  those  two  geese ;  why,  in  the  whole  of  Europe 
there's  nothing  like  them!  The  genuine  Arzamass 
breed!" 

And  with  this  last  tribute  to  his  irrepressible  desire 
for  enthusiasm,  Bambaev  ran  off  to  the  station  hut, 
where  again,  seasoned  with  opprobrious  epithets,  his 
name  was  shouted. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  same  day,  Litvinov  was 
nearly  reaching  Tatyana's  village.  The  little  house 
where  his  former  betrothed  lived  stood  on  the  slope  of 
a  hill,  above  a  small  river,  in  the  midst  of  a  garden  re- 
cently planted.  The  house,  too,  was  new,  lately  built, 
and  could  be  seen  a  long  way  off  across  the  river  and 
the  open  country.  Litvinov  caught  sight  of  it  more 
than  a  mile  and  a  half  off,  with  its  sharp  gable,  and  its 
row  of  little  windows,  gleaming  red  in  the  evening  sun. 
At  starting  from  the  last  station  he  was  conscious  of 
a  secret  agitation ;  now  he  was  in  a  tremor  simply — a 
happy  tremor,  not  unmixed  with  dread.  "How  will 
they  meet  me?"  he  thought,  "how  shall  I  present  my- 
self?" .  .  .  To  turn  off  his  thoughts  with  something, 


SMOKE  231 

he  began  talking  with  his  driver,  a  steady  peasant  with 
a  gray  beard,  who  charged  him,  however,  for  twenty- 
five  miles,  when  the  distance  was  not  twenty.  He 
asked  him,  did  he  know  the  Shestov  ladies? 

"The  Shestov  ladies?  To  be  sure!  Kind-hearted 
ladies,  and  no  doubt  about  it!  They  doctor  us,  too. 
It's  the  truth  I'm  telling  you.  Doctors  they  are !  Peo- 
ple go  to  them  from  all  about.  Yes,  indeed.  They 
fairly  crawl  to  them.  If  any  one,  take  an  example, 
falls  sick,  or  cuts  himself  or  anything,  he  goes  straight 
to  them  and  they'll  give  him  a  lotion  directly,  or  pow- 
ders, or  a  plaster,  and  it'll  be  all  right,  it'll  do  good. 
But  one  can't  show  one's  gratitude,  we  won't  consent 
to  that,  they  say ;  it's  not  for  money.  They've  set  up  a 
school  too.  .  .  .  Not  but  what  that's  a  foolish  busi- 
ness!" 

While  the  driver  talked,  Litvinov  never  took  his  eyes 
off  the  house.  .  .  .  Out  came  a  woman  in  white  on  to 
the  balcony,  stood  a  little,  stood  and  then  disappeared. 
.  .  .  "Wasn't  it  she?"  His  heart  was  fairly  bounding 
within  him.  "Quicker,  quicker!"  he  shouted  to  the 
driver ;  the  latter  urged  on  the  horses.  A  few  instants 
more  .  .  .  and  the  carriage  rolled  in  through  the 
opened  gates.  .  .  .  And  on  the  steps  Kapitolina  Mar- 
kovna  was  already  standing,  and  beside  herself  with 
joy,  was  clapping  her  hands  crying,  "I  heard  him,  I 
knew  him  first !  It's  he !  it's  he !  ...  I  knew  him !" 

Litvinov  jumped  out  of  the  carriage,  without  giving 
the  page  who  ran  up  time  to  open  the  door,  and  hur- 
riedly embracing  Kapitolina  Markovna,  dashed  into 
the  house,  through  the  hall,  into  the  dining-room.  .  .  . 
Before  him,  all  shamefaced,  stood  Tatyana.  She 
glanced  at  him  with  her  kind  caressing  eyes  (she  was  a 
little  thinner,  but  it  suited  her),  and  gave  him  her 
hand.  But  he  did  not  take  her  hand,  he  fell  on  his 


232  SMOKE 

knees  before  her.  She  had  not  at  all  expected  this  and 
did  not  know  what  to  say,  what  to  do.  .  .  .  The  tears 
started  into  her  eyes.  She  was  frightened,  but  her 
whole  face  beamed  with  delight.  .  .  .  "Grigory  Mi- 
halitch,  what  is  this,  Grigory  Mihalitch?"  she  said 
.  .  .  while  he  still  kissed  the  hem  of  her  dress  .  .  . 
and  with  a  thrill  of  tenderness  he  recalled  that  at 
Baden  he  had  been  in  the  same  way  on  his  knees  before 
her.  .  .  .  But  then — and  now! 

"Tanya!"  he  repeated,  "Tanya!  you  have  forgiven 
me,  Tanya!" 

"Aunt,  aunt,  what  is  this?"  cried  Tatyana  turning 
to  Kapitolina  Markovna  as  she  came  in. 

"Don't  hinder  him,  Tanya,"  answered  the  kind  old 
lady.  "You  see  the  sinner  has  repented." 

But  it  is  time  to  make  an  end ;  and  indeed  there  is 
nothing  to  add ;  the  reader  can  guess  the  rest  by  him- 
self. .  .  .  But  what  of  Irina? 

She  is  still  as  charming,  in  spite  of  her  thirty  years ; 
young  men  out  of  number  fall  in  love  with  her,  and 
would  fall  in  love  with  her  even  more,  if  ...  if  ... 

Reader,  would  you  care  to  pass  with  us  for  a  few 
instants  to  Petersburg  into  one  of  the  first  houses 
there?  Look;  before  you  is  a  spacious  apartment,  we 
will  not  say  richly — that  is  too  low  an  expression — but 
grandly,  imposingly,  inspiringly  decorated.  Are  you 
conscious  of  a  certain  flutter  of  servility?  Know  that 
you  have  entered  a  temple,  a  temple  consecrated  to  the 
highest  propriety,  to  the  loftiest  philanthropy,  in  a 
word,  to  things  unearthly.  ...  A  kind  of  mystic, 
truly  mystic,  hush  enfolds  you.  The  velvet  hangings 
on  the  doors,  the  velvet  curtains  on  the  window,  the 
bloated,  spongy  rug  on  the  floor,  everything  as  it  were 
destined  and  fitted  beforehand  for  subduing,  for  soft- 


SMOKE  233 

ening  all  coarse  sounds  and  violent  sensations.  The 
carefully  hung  lamps  inspire  well-regulated  emotions ; 
a  discreet  fragrance  is  diffused  in  the  close  air;  even 
the  samovar  on  the  table  hisses  in  a  restrained  and 
modest  manner.  The  lady  of  the  house,  an  important 
personage  in  the  Petersburg  world,  speaks  hardly  au- 
dibly; she  always  speaks  as  though  there  were  some 
one  dangerously  ill,  almost  dying  in  the  room;  the 
other  ladies,  following  her  example,  faintly  whisper; 
while  her  sister,  pouring  out  tea,  moves  her  lips  so 
absolutely  without  sound  that  a  young  man  sitting 
before  her,  who  has  been  thrown  by  chance  into  the 
temple  of  decorum,  is  positively  at  a  loss  to  know  what 
she  wants  of  him,  while  she  for  the  sixth  time  breathes 
to  him,  "Voulez-vous  une  tasse  de  the?"  In  the  cor- 
ners are  to  be  seen  young,  good-looking  men;  their 
glances  are  brightly,  gently  ingratiating ;  unruffled  gen- 
tleness, tinged  with  obsequiousness,  is  apparent  in  their 
faces ;  a  number  of  the  stars  and  crosses  of  distinc- 
tion gleam  softly  on  their  breasts.  The  conversation  is 
always  gentle;  it  turns  on  religious  and  patriotic  topics, 
the  Mystic  Drop,  F.  N.  Glinka,  the  missions  in  the 
East,  the  monasteries  and  brotherhoods  in  White  Rus- 
sia. At  times,  with  muffled  tread  over  the  soft  carpets, 
move  footmen  in  livery ;  their  huge  calves,  cased  in 
tight  silk  stockings,  shake  noiselessly  at  every  step; 
the  respectful  motion  of  the  solid  muscles  only  aug- 
ments the  general  impression  of  decorum,  of  solem- 
nity, of  sanctity. 

It  is  a  temple,  a  temple! 

"Have  you  seen  Madame  Ratmirov  to-day?"  one 
great  lady  queries  softly. 

"I  met  her  to-day  at  Use's,"  the  hostess  answers 
with  her  ^Eolian  note.  "I  feel  so  sorry  for  her.  .  .  . 
She  has  a  satirical  intellect  .  .  .  elle  n'a  pas  la  foi." 


234  SMOKE 

"Yes,  yes,"  repeats  the  great  lady  .  .  .  "that  I  re- 
member, Piotr  Ivanitch  said  about  her,  and  very  true 
it  is,  qu'elle  a  ...  qu'elle  a  an  ironical  intellect." 

"Rile  n'a  pas  la  foi,"  the  hostess's  voice  exhaled  like 
the  smoke  of  incense, — "C'est  une  ame  egaree.  She 
has  an  ironical  mind." 

And  that  is  why  the  young  men  are  not  all  without 
exception  in  love  with  Irina.  .  .  .  They  are  afraid  of 
her  .  .  .  afraid  of  her  "ironical  intellect."  That  is 
the  current  phrase  about  her;  in  it,  as  in  every  phrase, 
there  is  a  grain  of  truth.  And  not  only  the  young  men 
are  afraid  of  her;  she  is  feared  by  grown  men,  too, 
and  by  men  in  high  places,  and  even  by  the  grandest 
personages.  No  one  can  so  truly  and  artfully  scent 
out  the  ridiculous  or  petty  side  of  a  character,  no  one 
else  has  the  gift  of  stamping  it  mercilessly  with  the 
never- for  gotten  word.  .  .  .  And  the  sting  of  that 
word  is  all  the  sharper  that  it  comes  from  lovely, 
sweetly  fragrant  lips.  .  .  .  It's  hard  to  say  what 
passes  in  that  soul;  but  in  the  crowd  of  her  adorers 
rumor  does  not  recognize  in  any  one  the  position  of  a 
favored  suitor. 

Irina's  husband  is  moving  rapidly  along  the  path 
which  among  the  French  is  called  the  path  of  distinc- 
tion. The  stout  general  has  shot  past  him ;  the  con- 
descending one  is  left  behind.  And  in  the  same  town 
in  which  Irina  lives,  lives  also  our  friend  Sozont  Potu- 
gin ;  he  rarely  sees  her,  and  she  has  no  special  necessity 
to  keep  up  any  connection  with  him.  .  .  .  The  little 
girl  who  was  committed  to  his  care  died  not  long  ago. 

THE  END 


MODERN  LIBRARY  OF  THE  WORLD'S  BEST  BOOKS 


COMPLETE  LIST  OF  TITLES  IN 
THE     MODERN    LIBRARY 

For  convenience  in  ordering  pleas*  use  number  at  right  of  title 

TITLE 

Modern  American  Poets  81 27 
Poor  White  til 5 
Winesburg   Ohio   $104 
The  Seven  That  Were  Hanged;  an4 

The  Red  Laugh   $45 
Short  Stories   $40 
Prose  and  Poetry    f  70 
64  Reproductions    $42 
Jungle  Peace    $30 
Zuleika  Dobson  $116 
In  the  Midst  of  Life   f!33 
Poems   $91 

Wuthering  Heights   $106 
The  Way  of  All  Flesh   $13 
Beyond  Life    $25 
The  Cream  of  the  Jest  Si  26 
Love's  Coming  of  Age  If 5 1 
Alice  in  Wonderland,  etc.    $79 
Autobiography    $3 
Rothschild's  Fiddle   etc.,  $31 
Man  Who  Was  Thursday   $35 
Men.  Women  and  Boats   $102 
Flame  of  Life   $65 
The  Maidens  of  the  Rocks  $118 
The  Triumph  of  Death    $112 
The  Child  of  Pleasure   $98 
Sapho    $85 
Moll  Flanders    $122 
Poor  People  $10 
The  House  with  the  Green  Shuttea 

$129 

South  Wind   $5 
Poems  and  Prose  $74 
Free  and  Other  Stories  $50 
Camille   $69 
A  Dreamer's  Tales   $34 
Book  of  Wonder   $43 
New  Spirit    $95 

The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar  1107 
Madame  Bovary    $28 


AUTHOR 
AIKEN,  CONRAD 
ANDERSON,   SHERWOOD 
ANDERSON.  SHERWOOD 
ANDREYEV,  LEONID 

BALZAC 
BAUDELAIRE 
BEARDSLEY 
BEEBE,  WILLIAM 
BEERBOHM,  MAX 
BIERCE,  AMBROSE 
BLAKE,  WILLIAM 
BRONTE,  EMILY 
BUTLER,  SAMUEL 
CABELL,  JAMES  BRANCH 
CABELL,  JAMES  BRANCH 
CARPENTER,   EDWARD 
CARROLL,  LEWIS 
CELLINI,  BENVENUTO 
CHEKHOV,  ANTON 
CHESTERTON,  G.  K. 
CRANE,  STEPHEN 
D'ANNUNZIO,   GABRIELE 
D'ANNUNZIO,   GABRIELE 
D'ANNUNZIO,   GABRIELE 
D'ANNUNZIO,  GABRIELE 
DAUDET,  ALPHONSE 
DEFOE,  DANIEL 
DOSTOYEVSKY 
DOUGLAS.  GEORGE 

DOUGLAS,  NORMAN 
DOWSON,  ERNEST 
DREISER,  THEODORE 
DUMAS,  ALEXANDRE 
DUNSANY,  LORD 
DUNSANY,  LORD 
ELLIS,  HAVE10CK 
FABRE,  JEAN  HENRI 
FLAUBERT 


MODERN  LIBRARY  OF  THE  WORLD'S  BEST  BOOKS 


AUTHOR 
FLAUBERT 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
FRENSSEN,  GUSTAV 
GAUTIER 
GEORGE,  W.  L. 
GILBERT,  W.  S. 
GILBERT,  W.  S. 
GISSING,   GEORGE 
GISSING,   GEORGE 
GONCOURT,  E.  AND  J.  DE 
GORKY,   MAXIM 

DE  GOURMONT,  REMY 
DE  GOURMONT,  REMY 
HARDY,  THOMAS 
HARDY,  THOMAS 
HAWTHORNE,  NATHANIEL 
HEARN,  LAFACADIO 
HECHT,  BEN 
HUDSON,  W.  H. 
HUDSON,  W.  H. 
HUXLEY,  ALDOUS 
IBSEN,  HENRIK 
IBSEN,  HENRIK 

IBSEN,  HENRIK 

JAMES,  HENRY 
JAMES.  WILLIAM 
JOYCE,  JAMES 
KIPLING,  RUDYARD 
LATZKO,   ANDREAS 
LAWRENCE,  D.  H. 
LAWRENCE,  D.  H. 
LEWISOHN,  LUDWIG 
LOTI,  PIERRE 
MACY,  JOHN 
MAETERLINCK,  MAURICE 

DE  MAUPASSANT,  GUY 
DE  MAUPASSANT,  GUY 

DE  MAUPASSANT,  GUY 
MELVILLE,  HERMAN 
MEREDITH,  GEORGE 


TITLE 

Temptation  of  St.  Anthony  $92 
The  Queen  Pedauque  $110 
Crime  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard  $22 
The  Red  Lily  $7 
Thais  $67 
Jorn  Uhl  8101 
Mile.  De  Maupin  $53 
A  Bed  of  Roses  $75 
The  Mikado,  lolanthe,  etc.  $26 
Pinafore  and  Other  Plays  $113 
New  Grub  Street  $125 
Private  Papers  of  Henry  Ryecroft  $46 
Renee  Mauperin  $76 
Creatures   That   Once   Were   Men   and 

Other  Stories  $48 

A  Night  in  the  Luxembourg  $120 
A  Virgin  Heart  $131 
The  Return  of  the  Native  $121 
Mayor  of  Casterbridge  $17 
The  Scarlet  Letter  $93 
Some  Chinese  Ghosts  $130 
Erik  Dorn  $29 
Green  Mansions  $89 
The  Purple  Land  $24 
A  Virgin  Heart  $131 
A  Doll's  House,  Ghosts,  etc.  $6 
Hedda  Gabler,  Pillars  of  Society,  The 

Master  Builder  $36 
The   Wild   Duck,    Rosmersholm.    The 

League  of  Youth  $54 
Daisy  Miller,  etc.  $63 
The  Philosophy  of  William  James  $114 
Dubliners$124 
Soldiers  Three  $71 
Men  in  War  $88 
The  Rainbow  $128 
Sons  and  Lovers  $109 
Up  Stream  $123 
Mme.  Chrysantheme  $94 
The  Spirit  of  American  Literature  $56 
A  Miracle  of  St.  Anthony,  Pelleas  and 

Melisande,  etc.  $1 1 
Love  and  Other  Stories  $72 
Mademoiselle   Fifi,    and   Twelve   Other 

Stories  $8 
Une  Vie  $5  7 
Moby  Dick  $119 
Diana  of  the  Cross  ways  $14 


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MISCELLANEOUS 


MOLIERE 
MOORE,  GEORGE 
MORRISON,  ARTHUR 
NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 
NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 
NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 
NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 
O'NEILL,    EUGENE 
PATER,  WALTER 
PATER,  WALTER 
PAINE,   THOMAS 
POE,  EDGAR  ALLEN 
PREVOST,  ANTOINE 
RODIN 

PEPYS,   SAMUEL 
SCHNITZLER,  ARTHUR 
SCHNITZLER,  ARTHUR 
SCHOPENHAUER 
SCHREINER,  OLIVE 
SHAW,  G.  B. 
SPINOZA 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  LQUIS 
STIRNER,   MAX 
STRINDBERG,    AUGUST 
STRINDBERG,    AUGUST 
SUDERMANN,   HERMAN 
SWINBURNE,   CHARLES 

ALGERNON 
THOMPSON,  FRANCIS 
TOLSTOY,   LEO 
TOLSTOY,   LEO 

TURGENEV,  IVAN 

TURGENEV,  IVAN 

VAN  LOON,  HENDRIK  W. 

VILLON,  FRANCOIS 

VOLTAIRE 

WELLS,  H.  G. 


A  Modern  Book  of  Criticism  $81 

Best  Ghost  Stories  $73 

Best  American  Humorous  Short 

Stories  $87 

Best  Russian  Short  Stories  $18 
Contemporary  Science  $99 
Evolution  in  Modern  Thought  137 
Outline  of  Psychoanalysis  $66 
The  Woman  Question  $59 
Plays  $78 

Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  $16 
Tales  of  Mean  Streets  $100 
Ecce  Homo  $68 
Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  $9 
Beyond  Good  and  Evil  $20 
Genealogy  of  Morals  $62 
Moon  of  the  Caribbees,  etc.  f  1 1 1 
The   Renaissance  $86 
Marius  the  Epicurian  $90 
Writings    $108 
Best  Tales  $82 
Manon  Lescaut  $85 
64  Reproductions  $41 
Samuel  Pepys'  Diary  $103 
Anatol,  Green  Cockatoo,  etc.  $32 
Bertha  Garlan  $39 
Studies  in  Pessimism  $12 
The  Story  of  an  African  Farm  $132 
An  Unsocial  Socialist  $15 
The  Philosophy  of  Spinoza  $60 
Treasure  Island  $4 
The  Ego  and  His  Own  $49 
Married  $2 

Miss  Julie,  The  Creditor,  etc.  $52 
Dame  Care  $33 
Poems  $23 

Complete  Poems  $38 
Redemption,  Other  Plays  $77 
The  Death  of  Ivan  Ilyitch  and  Four 

Other  Stories  $64 
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Smoke  $80 
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Poems  $58 
Candide  $47 
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WILDE,  OSCAR 


WILDE, 
WILDE, 
WILDE, 
WILDE, 
WILDE, 
WILDE, 


OSCAR 
OSCAR 
OSCAB 
OSCAR 
OSCAR 
OSCAR 


WILSON,  WOODROW 
YEATS,  W.  B. 


Poems  #97 

An  Ideal  Husband,  A  Woman  of 

No  Importance  #84 
De  Profundis  8117 
Dorian  Gray  #1 
Poems  $19 

Fairy  Tales,  Poems  in  Prose  $6 1 
Intentions  $96 
Salome,  The  Importance  of  Being 

Earnest,  etc.  #83 

Selected  Addresses  and  Papers  $55 
Irish  Fairy  and  Folk  Tales  #44 


,  t  7  *2  &     -/-/otiLYv 


k  / 


000024631 


